M Is For Moriarty
by ElvendorkInfinity
Summary: Sequel to BANG; A figure at the end of the hospital bed; a needle in the dark...Moriarty has John, and Sherlock must follow the paper trail through London to find him before time runs out. Epilogue, A is for Aftermath, now posted.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Hang, on wait – no. False alarm; no owning here.**

**AN: *mouth falls open* Fifty five reviews for three chapters! I love you all; your reviews cheer me up endlessly and I was truly amazed at the response to BANG, I hope you all enjoy this as much. :) I was going to do a dedication, but the list of people who deserved it became so long that I'll just have to say it is dedicated to you all.**

John is groggy when he wakes, and for a moment thinks he is still in the hospital, before it strikes him that hospitals are generally not this cold, and they usually have beds. The room he's in is dark, but that is as likely to be the lack of windows as it is to mean that it's night, and the floor is hard; he can see no looming shapes which might be furniture, and hear no else in the room. He has no idea how long he has been here.

Getting gingerly to his feet – swearing loudly when he accidentally uses his broken wrist to help push himself up and slumping back down, clutching it and breathing hard through gritted teeth, fighting back nausea, he suddenly remembers.

A figure at the end of the hospital bed; a needle in the dark.

He doesn't need anything more than this to know _what_ happened, and _why_ is a question he would feel laughably foolish for even considering; _where_ is his next priority. Being much more careful to use his right hand, his good one, to push himself to his feet and gently cradling the left one, which still throbs sickeningly, against his chest, he stands, but he has barely taken two steps before the sheer disorientation of being in almost complete darkness makes him stumble – he instinctively reaches out and feels a rough wall under his fingertips. Keeping his hand trailing along it to maintain balance, he shuffles forwards.

He doesn't like walking through a room of unknown size and content with a broken wrist, a drug-slowed mind and a complete lack of any illumination, but there is no other way to explore his surroundings than touch; the only smell to reach his nostrils is dust and somewhat stale air, the only sound is a steady dripping as if from a tap not turned tightly enough. The only thing he sees is darkness.

He would think nothing of wandering his bedroom with the light turned off (though he might be more dubious to do so in the living area of the flat, in case he inadvertently stumbles across some experiment of Sherlock's), but here the darkness is like a living thing, breathing heavily down his neck and surrounding him, pressing in from all sides. He's not sure if the paranoia he feels is justified or not; is it simply a reaction to the darkness, some child like fear of the unknown, or is it because he knows perfectly well that Moriarty probably has ten men ready to shoot him should he make the slightest wrong move?

Probably a combination.

Living in London, he has grown accustomed to a constant low level of light; complete darkness is near impossible in a city, but it was different in Afghanistan. Gradually the old instincts come back to him though, and he finds his steps becoming more confident, keeping his hand on the wall but reaching it out in front of him so he'll have some idea of when he reaches a corner before he walks straight into another wall.

He comes to the other side of the room quickly and turns on the spot, running his fingers lightly over what feels like uneven, peeling wallpaper, searching for a door without knowing why; even if he finds one he knows it will be locked so securely that it would be impossible to escape, but it gives him the illusion of a goal, so he continues.

He reaches something like a seam in the wall and runs his hand down and across until he reaches the point where the handle should be. He tries it, and is unsurprised to find it locked; he half expects to hear Moriarty laughing in his ear at his idiocy for even trying.

The echoing silence is almost worse.

* * *

Sherlock grips the paper so hard his fingers go white in an effort to stop them shaking, quickly shutting out the panic that threatens to surface. It is not useful to him; a hindrance and weakness, and he packages it into the back of his mind along with the less obvious, squirming feeling of guilt. He allows the anger to stay though; he can use it, and forces himself to focus on the note with as much cool detachment as he can muster.

Moriarty.

John.

Immediately his mind is racing with theories, picked up and disregarded so quickly most do not even develop enough to explain aloud. He can only assume John has been abducted, and if this is the case then the abductor must have either been a member of hospital staff or suitably disguised to pass as one in order to get into and out of John's room without arousing suspicion.

There is also the problem of how they managed to get John to leave; threatening him seems the most obvious answer, but it would surely be difficult to maintain it long enough to get him away from prying eyes, without being noticed? Surely then he was incapacitated. Either there must have been a struggle, which would have drawn attention, or a sedative was used.

The anger increases slightly. Sherlock uses it to fuel his thoughts, channelling it into his theorising.

A sedative, then; this also points to involvement of hospital staff and would explain how Moriarty might receive medical attention without being discovered. It fits. He will have to ask Lestrade about the pharmacy break-ins, because a lack of them will support his theory.

He needs to see John's room.

He's not allowed to move.

He has better things to do with his time than follow pointless instructions.

It's painful just to sit up, but he ignores the protestations of his body as best he can and moves stiffly until he is sat sideways on the bed with his feet on the floor. He stops, taking deep breaths to recover from the activity and prepare himself for standing; his ribs and abdomen scream at him to just lay back down but he pays them no attention, pulling the cumbersome wires and tubes away from himself and barely seeming to notice the blood that runs down his hand when he inexpertly removes the IV.

Irritated by the inconvenience, he looks around for something to clamp over it in an effort to stop the flow. He spots a box of tissues on the side table and grabs a handful, pressing them firmly on the back of his hand.

Walking is a slow process; he has to focus just to put one foot in front of the other without collapsing but he concentrates on the door and forces himself forwards.

* * *

John loses track of the time he spends kicking the door and screaming obscenities at it, screaming for Moriarty, screaming for Sherlock, screaming for anything beyond this dark, empty room, his inescapable prison; he shouts until his throat is sore and his voice is so hoarse he can barely speak, he kicks until his whole leg throbs and he has to sink to the ground, so exhausted he can't even stand without swaying. Anger courses through him, stronger than he thought it possible to feel, pounding in his head and making him want to continue shouting and lashing out until he is answered, until Moriarty himself shows up and John can vent his fury on the cause.

Utterly spent, he leans against the wall and buries his head in his hands, gripping his hair to stop himself hitting something...

He isn't aware of falling asleep, but he is woken by Moriarty's voice.

'_Boo,_' he whispers in John's ear; immediately he is sitting bolt upright, instinctively scrambling away from the sound. Moriarty is crouched beside him, grinning, but his eyes are as cold as ever. The door is closed; the light is coming from a single bulb hanging in the centre of the room.

'Do you like the accommodation?' Moriarty asks cheerily, 'It's a little sparse for my liking, but I'm sure you'll make do.'

'You son of a –'

'Ah ah ah, Doctor Watson,' Moriarty warns as John lunges for him, 'my friends may not take kindly to that.' Glancing up, John sees two suited men, both much larger than either he or the consulting criminal, flanking their boss like bodyguards with handguns trained on John's chest, aimed directly at his heart. John freezes. 'Good,' says Moriarty, 'you know you have to do as I say, now John, or I won't be happy. I won't be happy at all.'

'How did you get out?' John spits at him, noticing with satisfaction that a nasty cut runs through Moriarty's left eyebrow and when he stands, taking several calm steps back from John, who daren't move from the floor, he favours his left leg. He at least did not escape the explosion unharmed, though thinking of Sherlock, pale, unconscious and covered in blood, this is not much comfort.

'Now, now, John, I don't want to spill the beans too early on, do I? We've got a lot of time together yet, I'd rather keep some things a mystery right now, hmm?'

'Sherlock will figure this out, he'll find you.'

'No doubt he will, when I want him to,' Moriarty says lightly, sounding rather bored by the conversation now. 'But not until then.' He pauses and cocks his head to one side, studying John like a curious child. 'I could kill you now, of course. One little nod...' he flicks his head towards the gunman on his left, and John sees the man's hand tighten on the weapon, 'and it's all over..._imagine_ how entertaining it would be to see how Sherlock would react to _that_!' He stops again, and John can't help but feel it's for effect as much as anything; he's enjoying his dramatic threats, watching John squirm under his gaze, unable to move.

John's eyes dart between the guns pointed at him and Moriarty's face; fear has replaced anger now. He knows Moriarty wouldn't hesitate to kill him, and he knows there isn't the slightest chance of escape. He swallows, trying to force his heart to beat slower; it's trembling erratically in his chest and it's all he can do to stop himself shaking. It's no good having military training if he knows he would have no chance to use it.

'But then you see, I wouldn't get to see him react to _this_, and it's going to be so much fun. He won't like having a puzzle he can't solve, he _definitely_ won't. You'll be here...and there's not a thing he can do about it.'

* * *

The hospital is quiet, which relieves Sherlock because he doesn't need overly anxious nurses or irate doctors ordering him back to his bed. He's managing to block out most of the pain by focusing on the task at hand; he's grown accustomed to ignoring the unnecessary, and he doesn't need the distraction of his own physical weakness getting in his way.

Nonetheless, the journey is slow and he has to stop more than once to catch his breath and reinforce his blockade against the pain, which is growing stronger the longer he is away from the morphine drip.

By the time he reaches John's room he has only seen two nurses, but both were too busy attempting to calm a hysterical woman down to notice him pass. He pushes open the door.

The place is spotless. Moriarty's accomplice has left not a single mark to betray his presence, and every sign of John has been erased as well; for a moment he thinks he has the wrong room, but he knows that Moriarty has done this deliberately. He has covered his tracks completely, knowing how it would infuriate Sherlock not to be able to see anything.

But everyone makes mistakes, Sherlock reminds himself. Even Moriarty will eventually.

'Sir?' The voice of a young woman calls, but Sherlock ignores it, pulling open the draw of John's bedside table and finding it empty. 'Sir, you need to come with me.'

'I'm busy,' he says without looking at her, instead scanning every inch of the room in search of something, anything, to tell him that either John or his abductor were ever in it, but he finds none; the room is completely clean.

'Sir, please sit down.' She sounds worried.

'I'm fine,' he tells her, 'I'm busy.' He throws back the sheets of the bed, hoping for another note from Moriarty but there is nothing – he shouts out in frustration, grabbing at his own hair as he paces, ignoring the steadily increasing pain in his abdomen.

'Mr Holmes, you need to sit down right now.' The voice is deeper and more authoritative than the nurse's, but no more effective. The doctor comes forwards and places a hand on Sherlock's arm; the detective shrugs it away. 'Sir, sit down; you've split your stitches, you need to stop moving around, now.'

Surprised, Sherlock looks down, and notices for the first time the dark red stain spreading steadily across his hospital gown. He automatically presses a hand to the wound in a vain attempt to stem the flow; he feels suddenly dizzy and stumbles, his vision blurry.

How inconvenient.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

**AN: As always, thank you for the reviews and I hope you like this chapter.**

For a full week since splitting his stitches, Sherlock is confined to his bed and under a constant watch to prevent him moving again. It is infuriating.

Lestrade continues to visit but he brings little news; the lead on pharmacy break ins has produced nothing, and Sherlock knows this means Moriarty, almost without a doubt, has hospital staff under his thumb. The thought is far from comforting; Sherlock takes to scrutinising each and every single worker with even more intensity than normal but it yields nothing. Moriarty has fooled him once already by hiding in plain sight; the idea that his lackeys could be doing the same thing is abhorrent.

Moriarty has not contacted him; Sherlock knows why. Moriarty knows what it will do to his adversary to be presented with a case he has no chance of solving. A case involving John, no less.

It will drive Sherlock mad.

Whenever he can slow his mind to the point that trying isn't a total waste of time, he runs through the events on the night of the explosion. There is little else he can do, after all, but at first the images and sounds are so rushed and muddled that he can't make sense of them; even when he concentrates it all seems to happen so fast that nothing new becomes obvious to him. Fuming, burning with the frustration of his own ridiculous helplessness, he swipes at the glass of water he's been given and it tumbles to the floor with a satisfying smash, the contents spreading to form a disproportionately large puddle.

Watching the water steadily creep outwards is somehow calming; Sherlock takes the opportunity to once again examine his own memories.

_He enters the pool with the memory stick, hoping for a confrontation with Moriarty._

Irrelevant; too soon.

_Fast-forward to John grabbing Moriarty from behind and threatening him._

Still too soon.

_Moriarty leaves – Sherlock tosses the bomb jacket across the floor – Moriarty re-enters. Brief exchange. _

This is where events become confused; in a single instant Sherlock fires, and so does someone else – the bomb explodes, he and John leap for the safety of the pool – but somehow, in all the confusion, Moriarty escapes and Sherlock is shot.

Slow down the memories.

'_...you are sadly misinformed...' – there, when he speaks, in the instant before he fires – is that when the sniper pulls the trigger? It must be, but Sherlock can't remember; he doesn't remember the initial pain of the bullet, because everything else was literally blowing up around him...he definitely sees Moriarty move, but where too? Is he heading for the pool, or away? How did he get wherever he's going? Is Sherlock imagining this memory – did he _really_ see the man move at all?_

He can't make sense of the events preceding the explosion, not matter how hard he tries to untangle them, slow them down, but with the doctors watching his every move and preventing him getting up, there's nothing else he can do, so he runs them over and over in his mind, hoping for something new to make itself known.

Moriarty's plan is working. Sherlock can't stand this.

But on the eighth day of his enforced bed rest, Sherlock wakes after a brief and restless sleep to find a horribly familiar pink phone on the bedside table; he doesn't need to ask who put it there, and holds it like a dead thing, as though worried it might poison him. He stares. He waits.

* * *

John is stood with his back against the wall of his prison; two of Moriarty's men stand by his sides, two more beside Moriarty, who is facing John and waggling a mobile phone with a look of excitement on his face.

'I think we've waited long enough,' Moriarty says. John doesn't reply. He watches Moriarty dial and hold the phone to his ear with a dramatic flourish, feeling a swooping sickness in his stomach when he hears Sherlock reply, his voice harsh and sharp.

'_Moriarty,_' is all he says,

'Hiii!' Moriarty chimes, 'Did you miss me, Sherlock?'

'_What's the clue?_'

'Clue? I don't think I've said anything about a clue, Sherlock.' He winks exaggeratedly at John, who is seized by an urge to throttle the man, breathing hard through his nose and trying to calm himself down.

'_The game. Why else would you be doing this?_' John feels some relief that Sherlock's voice has almost returned to normal, but there's still a bite of worry in it; perhaps it's only because he's lived with Sherlock that he notices. He _lives_ with Sherlock, he reminds himself; he _will_ get out of this.

'What makes you think I haven't killed little Johnny already?' Moriarty's tone changes, goes serious and threatening; John has never heard anything worse than the silence that follows his words, because that Sherlock should be made speechless – by Moriarty – because of _him_ – is unthinkable. He feels...guilty.

'_You haven't,_' but Sherlock hesitated too long, and his voice does not quite carry the certainty he hopes it does. Moriarty laughs,

'True, Sherlock, very true. John Watson is alive and – well, he's alive.' Sherlock's reply is spat, venomous, and again John feels an irrational surge of guilt.

'_If you harm him –_'

'How _touching_!' Moriarty exclaims, 'Really, Sherlock, I'm sure John appreciates the concern. Don't you John?' He leans towards his captive, smiling and whispering conspiratorially. John isn't sure what makes him do it. It could be anger, frustration – it could be fear. It could be for revenge. For himself. For Sherlock. For Sarah. He doesn't know. But he glares at Moriarty, and spits straight in his eye. Immediately there's a sickening thud and he reels from the blow, seeing through blurry double vision one of Moriarty's men withdrawing a fist.

'_What was that_?' Demands Sherlock, '_John?_'

Moriarty wipes his face, looking furious.

'John just needs to learn some manners.' He tells Sherlock quietly. 'You will receive a text shortly.'

He hangs up.

* * *

Sherlock lowers the phone but doesn't take his eyes off it; a nurse instructs him firmly that he should switch it off and use a hospital phone if it is urgent, but he tells them so forcefully to leave him alone that they comply, looking slightly frightened.

He considers what he heard; John had not spoken, but he must have been in the room, and Sherlock has a feeling he knows what the thud was; he carefully packages away the anger that comes with this thought, knowing that it will do him no good right now.

John had obviously done something to upset Moriarty; Sherlock assumes some act of defiance, and feels a strange stirring in his chest that it takes him a moment to identify; pride. He can't remember ever feeling pride before, and is surprised to find it isn't unpleasant. He wonders – does it usually come with this irritation at the very person you are impressed with? John should know better than to anger Moriarty.

The pink phone bleeps. A text.

_This should be easy for you Sherlock._

"_M" is for "Moriarty". What else is it for?_

* * *

The man who hit John is the last to leave, swinging the door shut loudly behind him; there's a click of a lock and a few seconds later the light turns off once more, plunging John into the now familiar darkness.

He doesn't bother moving from where he's stood, he's already examined every inch of the walls and floor for a weakness, another exit, for anything, but the room is completely escape-proof. It's like being trapped inside a giant box. John sinks to the ground and touches his forehead gingerly.

Judging from the blood dripping down over his eyebrow, he assumes the old wound has reopened but can't tell. Perhaps a new one has joined it. It makes no difference either way, but he can tell from the fresh and tender swelling around it that he is due for a nasty black eye.

He doesn't regret what he did though; it felt good, felt like he was doing _something_ to stop Moriarty controlling his every move, even if he did pay for it. He's sick of being played with, sick of being a puppet, sick of Moriarty using him to get to Sherlock.

And yet he knows, with absolute clarity, that if – when – he gets out of here, he won't walk away from this new life. Despite – no – _because_ of the danger, he needs it. He needs the thrill of the adrenalin, the fascination of the cases, the satisfaction of catching criminals. One more of them getting ideas above himself isn't going to put him off. It should. He knows it should. But he also knows it won't.

* * *

Sherlock's mind is immediately focused on one thing, and one thing only.

"_M" is for "Moriarty"...what else is it for?_

Easy. He said it would be easy; this narrows things down – it must be something connected to either him or Moriarty, or else he is sure there would be another clue, even he can't be expected to find a link where none exists. M...Mycroft is the first to spring to mind, but he is quickly put aside; Sherlock doubts Moriarty would dare to send him clues through Mycroft. He is, frustratingly, uncertain of his brother's exact position but knows that he has enough power to do something about it if he were contacted by Moriarty.

He can't think of anything else significant enough to capture his attention from his own life, so turns to Moriarty's; he knows little about it, but enough to tell that if Moriarty thought it was going to be easy, then he must not need to research any further.

What does he know about Moriarty?

_Maniac_.

Sherlock twitches his head as though displacing a fly; too much time with John.

_Molly_.

Yes...yes that must be it. Of course it would be easy to send him a message through Molly even if she now knows who he really is...he needs to see her.

'Mr. Holmes, sit back down this instant.' Sherlock is not aware of having stood up, but does not appreciate being spoken to like a child, and ignores the demand. 'Mr Holmes,' Doctor Fircroft lays a hand on his arm and looks up at him, 'please sit down, we don't give these instructions for nothing you know!' Her voice is somewhere between light-hearted and worried. Sherlock stares at her until she lets go. 'What is it, Mr Holmes?'

'I need to see someone,' he replies curtly, 'it's important.'

'I'm sure it can wait, Sir –'

'Now!' Fircroft doesn't flinch; she's getting used to her patient's outbursts. She nods.

'Who is it, Mr Holmes? I'm sure I can contact them and ask them to come here; you'll be able to move around on your own again in no time, but we need to be sure you're healing properly, especially after what happened last time...'

'Molly Hooper,' replies Sherlock, cutting off the woman's rant.

* * *

'I'm so sorry Sherlock,' Molly's lip trembles when she speaks, before even making it through the door. She seems reluctant to approach him, 'I didn't know, I didn't – I never realised that he was...'

'Did he tell you something?' Sherlock demands urgently; a tear escapes and runs down Molly's cheek; her hair is dishevelled and she is not wearing make-up. Sherlock frowns, trying to think what John might say he should do in this situation. He needs her to give him whatever it is Moriarty has entrusted her with. 'It's – err – it's not your fault.' He tells her awkwardly, concentrating on keeping the impatience out of his voice.

'But I – I introduced him to you! I thought he was harmless, he was just Jim, Sherlock, really I didn't know...'

'It's okay. Just, um – could I have whatever he gave you?' His voice is as polite as he can make it, knowing he needs to get it quickly. With trembling hands, she holds out another piece of paper.

_Robert Spencer. Six hours._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I highly doubt I would be writing fanfiction.**

**AN: I have been to London a grand total of once, on a school trip to The Tate; all of my knowledge of London geography is gained from Google maps & street view, so please excuse mistakes or inconsistencies. Not my favourite chapter, but I hope you like it. :)**

The building of the crime scene is much the same as any other in the street; they always are, Lestrade muses darkly as he ducks under the yellow police tape barring the public from moving into the area and dutifully ignoring the reporters. An anonymous tip is always enough to put him on edge, and today is no different, though he expects nothing particularly out of the ordinary as he walks inside.

Seventy-nine Saint George's Drive is a white building with a black door, flanked by impressive, almost flawless, pillars, on which the number is printed neatly twice. Like several of the other houses, a bicycle is chained on the black railings; Lestrade wonders if it belonged to their victim.

He finds said victim in the kitchen, already surrounded by forensics; a man in his forties, if Lestrade's guess is right, well dressed and if the glittering appliances are anything to go by, something of a clean freak. He's laid face down on the floor, a smashed mug a little more than a foot away from his right hand; the only sign of a disturbance in the entire room. Nothing else looks remotely out of the ordinary, the only point which is unexpected is the sickly strong smell of air freshener, but Lestrade has smelled much worse at crime scenes, so he finds it easy to dismiss.

'Have you found anything yet?' He asks Anderson, who shakes his head, without taking his eyes off the door, dusting it for prints. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the sound of his mobile interrupts him; he's surprised to see Sherlock's name on screen, and excuses himself.

'_Robert Spencer_,' Sherlock says by way of greeting,

'Thought you preferred texting?' Lestrade asks; he's not surprised to be contacted, though, knowing how bored and frustrated Sherlock must be shut up at the hospital while John Watson is missing.

'_It's important,' _Sherlock replies shortly; Lestrade is about to inform the consultant that there is no need to check up on him – of course they have men working on John's disappearance, but they do have other cases and since there are no leads...but Sherlock doesn't ask, as he has done every other time the two have spoken since he received the note. '_Have you any cases involving a Robert Spencer?_'

'Not that I know of,' says Lestrade, frowning with thought and wondering why the name should be important to Sherlock, 'why – no, hang on, wait a second – check for ID!' He calls to the room at large; an officer moves forwards and pulls a wallet from the dead man's back pocket with gloved hands, opening it carefully.

'Robert J. Spencer,' she replies, flicking through the contents. Lestrade nods his thanks and turns his attention back to his mobile.

'Yes; just now, new case,' he tells Sherlock with an increasing sense of foreboding. 'Why?' His stomach clenches with dread, knowing a split second before Sherlock replies what the answer will be. Sure enough,

'_Moriarty_,' he says.

* * *

Sherlock feels a familiar thrill of exhilaration at the prospect of a new case; this is what he needs, what he can do, better than anyone else. _The game is on_.

'Where?' He demands,

_'__Saint George's Drive - you're not honestly thinking of coming to the scene_?' Lestrade sounds incredulous. Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes.

'I need to see it,'

'_You're in hospital for a reason, Sherlock! If this is something to do with John then we can bring you crime scene photos I suppose, you can study those to see if you can find anything, but you can't come _here –'

'You'll miss something,' Sherlock interrupts with absolute certainty, 'I need to observe everything as it is in order to make any useful deductions.'

'_For God's sake Sherlock, you need rest! We can handle one case on our own..._'

'I highly doubt that. Don't move anything until I get there.'

'_I know how to do my job, Sherlock!_' Replies Lestrade, bristling at the instruction; Sherlock decides not to reply, and hangs up. Standing is not as difficult as it was to begin with, but it is not exactly comfortable and Doctor Fircroft quickly rushes over to ask him where exactly he's planning on going.

'I need to examine a crime scene. Do you have my clothes?'

'They were ruined in the explosion, I'm afraid Mr Holmes, and I'm certain the police can manage without you for a short while.' Sherlock brushes past her, getting impatient with the insistence that he is not needed, which of course he is.

It is over an hour before Sherlock manages to come to an agreement with the doctors, and calls Lestrade again; he is pleased to discover that no, nothing in the crime scene has been moved, and instructs the DI to collect him from the hospital with fresh clothes. He will look at the crime scene, draw his conclusions, and return to the hospital; it's not ideal, but he will settle for nothing less and the doctors won't stand for anything more.

* * *

Lestrade is less than happy to be ordered around by Sherlock like an errand boy, and tells himself, as he drives to the crime scene with the consultant, that he is only doing it out of sympathy because of the man's injuries and his missing friend; nothing else could make him lower himself to such tasks, especially when he knows he will not receive a word of thanks.

Sherlock fidgets in the car once he has been picked up, which irritates Lestrade but he says nothing. He is uncomfortable with the clothes Lestrade has brought from his flat (which he very reluctantly allowed the DI entrance to); he feels strangely exposed without his coat and scarf, but at least the clothes fit, and they are certainly much better than the hospital gown.

Both men are relieved to find themselves outside the door of seventy nine Saint George's Drive, and Sherlock immediately brushes everything else from his mind as quickly and efficiently as sweeping back a troublesome cobweb, focusing his every ounce of concentration on what is right in front of him; what he can see, touch, hear, smell...this is what matters. He walks towards the victim's kitchen without acknowledging anyone he passes, his eyes sweeping the rooms as he goes through them. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

'What's he doing here?' Demands Anderson; Sherlock keeps his back to him, studying the body carefully for a moment before crouching down beside it, blocking out whatever Lestrade is saying to the indignant and irritating man.

Tan line on the ring finger; married, but not wearing the ring. Obviously not separated though, Sherlock knows he saw a photograph of the pair of them in the sitting room. Why take off the ring? He clearly doesn't do manual work, judging by his attire and generally small build. Unhappy, then? An affair perhaps; await more evidence.

Sherlock sniffs and wrinkles his nose with distaste; the air is thick with expensive fragrance.

'Interesting...' he mutters, 'can you smell that?' He shoots towards Lestrade, who gestures to a squat white plastic object on the counter.

'Air freshener,' he says, 'why, does it mean something?' Sherlock stares at him for a moment; Lestrade feels about two inches tall.

'Why would anyone, especially an anosmic, need _two_ air fresheners in a room this clean?'

'I can only see one air freshener – hang on, anosmic?' Lestrade is sure that Sherlock's sigh is deliberately exaggerated and grinds his teeth together with annoyance, forcing himself not to snap at the man; he knows he will get answers more quickly if he just lets him explain.

Sherlock pauses, frowning. This is far too fast; why has he been given six hours for a case so mind numbingly obvious? A few minutes at the scene and already he is certain he knows at least most of what must have happened...he feels a prickling unease. But he needs this case solved, he needs it wrapped up quickly and he has no time to stand around deliberating Moriarty's motives...for a moment, the man's gleeful face swims before his eyes, shadowed by John's fearful one...

'Three smells,' Sherlock begin eventually, getting to his feet with somewhat less than his usual energy and wincing; Lestrade resists the automatic urge to tell him to take it easy. 'One; almonds; the air freshener you so observantly just pointed out. Two; floral,' he pulls a small glass phial, half filled, from the bin and holds it up, 'recently replaced refill of said air freshener. Three; he's wearing far too much cologne. Anyone with a sense of smell would know this and remove it, which indicates he hadn't noticed, ergo, anosmic.'

'So he was trying a bit too hard to impress his wife, what does that matter?' Anderson demands.

'How do you even function with those tiny brains?' Sherlock asks incredulously, earning himself a furious glare, 'No one tries that hard to impress someone they've been with for years, and he isn't wearing the ring. Odd, don't you think, if she's the one he's trying to impress? Probably having an affair.'

'And the air fresheners?' Lestrade is almost afraid to ask,

'Why replace one when it's half full?' Sherlock asks,

'Maybe he – his wife, whatever, just didn't like the original?'

'So she waited until it was half empty to replace it, rather than getting rid of it straight away? It was probably replaced by the murderer.' He says, watching with satisfaction as comprehension dawns on Lestrade's face, which takes, in Sherlock's opinion, far too long.

'_Cyanide_,' he breaths finally, looking at the broken mug; Sherlock nods, 'almonds...it would mask the smell.'

'How unoriginal,' Sherlock breaths, sounding disappointed, 'but why bother?'

'Sorry?'

'_Anosmic_!' Sherlock exclaims, gesturing to the man's body as Lestrade looks completely nonplussed, 'He would never have noticed, so the air freshener was intended for us...' he trails off, frowning. Anyone could surely figure out that the police would, even without Sherlock, eventually come to the conclusion of cyanide poisoning? They might be useless in many areas, but they did _tests_, they did _autopsies_...this is too easy, far too easy...why would Moriarty lay down the clues so simply? But without further evidence he can't dispute what's right in front of his eyes, so he turns to Lestrade with, for once, an uncertain conclusion.

'Wife,' he says, and strides from the room; he needs to find a computer.

* * *

'Look at this!' Moriarty exclaims, showing John a laptop; knowing it won't be anything he likes, he reluctantly focuses his eyes on the screen, which is currently showing Sherlock's website. The latest entry reads:

_Cyanide poisoning. Wife. Too simple._

John groans; why, _why_, had Sherlock said it was too simple? Did he not realise Moriarty would simply up the game, make things so difficult as to be almost impossible, at the slightest provocation?

'The thing is Johnny...it _is_ too simple,' Moriarty tells him; John doesn't flinch at what happens next, expecting it too much to be remotely surprised, but that doesn't make the experience any more pleasant. He closes his eyes, as though hoping by doing so he can banish what's happening.

'Now be a good boy and do as I say.' Moriarty points his own gun, declarations of not getting his hands dirty forgotten, straight at John's head.

* * *

Sherlock, back at hospital now despite his furious protestations, stares at the laptop balanced on his knees and refreshes the page once more, waiting for Moriarty's reply. He doesn't like this doubt that he's feeling – he's not used to it. He knows something must be wrong, he knows the case was far, _far_ too easy...Spencer's wife, Lestrade has told him, was away on business..._but that doesn't mean she can't have poisoned the tea, she could have done it before she left_...he knows it is pointless, he _knows_ that he is wrong, he just doesn't know _why_ and it's driving him insane.

Refreshing the page for what feels like – what probably _is_ – the hundredth time, he finally sees a reply. One word.

_Wrong!_

His heart thunders suddenly, and he grabs for the mobile that he knows will ring at any moment, his mind racing with everything he knows about the victim..._anosmic, married; fifteen years, affair, younger woman, almonds, _cyanide_...it _must _have been the wife...Moriarty has given him no clues to point to another conclusion and no time to find any_...

The phone rings.

'_You know the drill, Sherlock_,' says John's voice slowly; Sherlock is momentarily back at the pool, turning to see his colleague, his – friend? Standing behind him... '_Ten_.'

Countdown. _Damn_...think, Sherlock, _thinkthinkthink_!

'_Nine_.'

Moriarty is repeating himself...why is that important? Don't think about it, focus! The victim, think of the victim...

'_Eight_.' John's voice wavers.

Body, face down; broken mug, almond air freshener; no sign of violence, it _must_ have been poison, it _must_ have been cyanide...

'_Seven_.'

The affair, the affair, it must have been the wife, it has to have been the wife...

'_Six_.'

What else was in the room? Clean work surfaces, sparkling oven, brand new fridge...

'_Five_.'

Fridge covered in magnets, two holding a photograph straight...

'_Four_.'

Photograph of two women, one much older, both look alike...family? Mother – _mother_!

'_Three_.'

'The mother, his wife's mother, she found out about the affair and poisoned him to protect her daughter!' Sherlock says quickly, hoping desperately that he is right.

'Good, Sherlock.' John's voice is weak with relief as he parrots Moriarty's words; muscles Sherlock hadn't even realised he had tensed relax, and his shoulders visibly droop, 'next time, it won't be so easy.'

He hangs up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write, I ended up with at least five versions...I hope it worked out. Dedicated to 'Saturn-Jupiter', whose review really did make my day. :)**

The pink phone bleeps before Sherlock has lowered it from his ear, as he knew it would.

Two things register before he even looks at the text; three register afterwards. He catalogues them carefully into those things he needs to consider and those he does not; he knows before looking that the text is from Moriarty and that it is another puzzle. These things need no further thought. After reading the text, it registers that he has not been given a time limit – something which requires his attention – that he has been given far less of a head start than last time, and that he needs to do research.

He would much rather have a set time to work with from the off – Moriarty will likely get bored and set one anyway, and Sherlock knows he will work much more efficiently if he knows how long he has. There is nothing he can do about it though, so he re-reads the words on screen, hoping somehow that they will reveal something this time that the first look has left hidden. It doesn't.

"_O" is for "Orphan"._

It's not much of a clue, but a part of Sherlock likes this – it makes more of a _challenge_, which is something he can never quite bring himself to resist. He can't think of an outstanding case involving orphans, but of course knowing Moriarty this could very well be either much older than he expects or else a much more obscure hint...he pulls his laptop towards him and begins typing.

Half an hour later – much of which is taken up by Sherlock cursing the seemingly deliberate slowness of his damnable laptop – Sherlock has come across three possibilities by trawling various news websites; he will need to check with Lestrade – or else hack Scotland Yard's files – to discover anything either so recent or deemed so minor that it has not made the news.

Hilary James, a social worker, arrested for drug use. A possibility, Sherlock supposes, one he cannot yet rule out, but one he doubts will come to much; an open and shut case, even to the fools running the police force.

Aaron Mead, a businessman suspected of burning his own parents' home, with them inside, to the ground; if deemed innocent, he stands to receive a massive inheritance sum. More likely than Hilary James, definitely – certainly Moriarty's style to have a hand in..._Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me..._Sherlock will look into it_._

Isobel Parker, a twelve year old foster child, missing since yesterday; Sherlock cannot see any gain to be made from the girl's disappearance, so it hardly seems like something with Moriarty's name attached to it, but again, he cannot dismiss the possibility, especially since Moriarty could well have done it simply to mess with Sherlock.

Three possible leads, though he is tempted to dismiss the case of Hilary James straight away...Aaron Mead and Isobel Parker are harder justify a choice between though...Mead certainly seems Moriarty's type, but Parker's case is less easily solved. Perhaps he's supposed to examine both? But he has no idea of the time Moriarty will give him, and if he gets caught up in the wrong one, John –

He needs more information, which he isn't going to get dumbly following the orders of overly cautious doctors and typing incessantly into a laptop with a mind numbing crawl of an internet connection.

* * *

John doesn't how long he's been held captive here; judging by the growth of stubble on his chin he would say at least a week, but he can't be certain. Moriarty's visits, and the food brought to him, which he generally refuses, don't come with a regular pattern and no natural light permeates the room so he can't even judge when it's day or night. His eyes have gradually become accustomed to the darkness but this is no help either; there's nothing for him to see. Perhaps this is the point. Perhaps Moriarty is playing with him as much as Sherlock, driving them both mad.

If this incredible boredom is how Sherlock feels when there are no cases for him to solve...John can understand the urge to shoot something, even if it is just the wall...though he would far rather it be Moriarty.

He edges around the room for what must be the hundredth time, memorising the feel of the walls under his hands, searching for weak points in Moriarty's security that he knows he won't find. His actions are pointless, he knows this, but it's better than sitting and staring at the nothing that surrounds him, hoping for a miracle.

Sleep is not an option he welcomes; it comes eventually anyway, and the release from this prison should be some relief to him, but it never is. His dreams are full of bombs, swimming pools and laughing madmen – Sarah surfaces sometimes, angry with him, scared of him, red lights dancing across her chest...sometimes he relives the events of the pool, but there are invariably slight differences to his memories. Sometimes Harry or Sarah is there too. Sometimes he doesn't make it to the water and is thrown through the air by the explosion, battered by the heat and the debris, and the _pain_...sometimes the dancing light on Sherlock's forehead when he grabs Moriarty doesn't disappear – sometimes a bullet follows it and he has to watch as his friend falls...

And then he wakes, sweating and shaking in a manner he has grown uncomfortably used to, feeling no better rested than when he fell asleep.

Suddenly the bulb in the centre of the room flares and John whips his hands away from the wall, covering his eyes to protect them and turning towards the door as Moriarty walks calmly through it, accompanied as usual by four of his henchmen, all with guns. John works hard to control the anger that surfaces, hoping the flash of fear he always feels doesn't show on his face.

'Having fun?' Moriarty asks cheerfully; John clenches his fists by his sides but doesn't reply. He will not play along with Moriarty. 'It's rude to ignore me, you know,' he continues, 'you don't want to annoy me, I assure you. I can make things very _difficult_, very easily.'

'Because this is such a blast at the moment,' John snaps, cursing himself for rising to the bait.

'Not everything is about you John; what about your girlfriend? Or your sister? I admit getting to Sherlock would be more troublesome now he's given the doctors the slip – morphine would have been perfect...such a hard dosage to get right don't you think?' He pauses to enjoy watching John's face pale, then continues in the same bored voice, 'but now he's out...I could make a _statement_.'

Even in the face of the threats he's receiving, John can't help the concern that rises now, on a purely medical basis; Sherlock's out of the hospital? Probably running around London with no thoughts about his physical well being...how severe are his injuries, how well healed? Can his body stand the pressure he will undoubtedly put on it during the excitement of a case?

'What do you want?' He asks quietly, forcing as much venom into his voice as he can muster. Moriarty looks amused.

'This little game is getting rather boring,' he says, 'and now Sherlock can move freely...I think we ought to raise the stakes.'

'Meaning what?' John doesn't like the look of..._excitement_ on Moriarty's face, and much less does he like the quaver in his own voice when he asks the question. Without warning, all four of the gunmen start forwards; three holster their weapons, two of these grab and hold his arms tightly, the third pulls a syringe from his pocket. The fourth man is behind him now; John can feel the gun pressing between his shoulder blades. His breath quickens but he forces himself to stay calm, staring into the cold eyes of the man before him.

'Meaning that Sherlock has not been given a time limit, yet,' Moriarty says, sounding suddenly detached and professional, 'but I think we should give him an incentive to work a little faster – namely, you.' John automatically tries to pull himself out of the grip of the men holding him, tugging his arm down as one forces him to raise it, pushing back his sleeve. The gun is pressed more firmly into his back. 'Don't worry, the first dose won't do you any harm,' he tells John, over the doctor's sharp intake of breath when the needle breaks his skin, 'though the hallucinations might not be very pleasant; after that, you get one dose every hour, on the hour, until Sherlock solves the case. I'm not entirely sure how much you'd need for an overdose – let's hope Sherlock works quickly enough that we don't find out.'

* * *

Mead's office is huge and right now, dimly lit by the evening light filtering through the large window opposite the door. The desk, positioned as if displaying the city view, is made of polished wood and perfectly neat; the walls are mostly bare, showing only framed awards Mead has received and a single large and expensive looking painting.

Gaining access was not difficult, barely more challenging than leaving the hospital unnoticed; careful flattery of the secretary and the assurance that Mead has requested Sherlock to be here and he is let in; lax security, but not Sherlock's concern right now. He assumes there are CCTV cameras around the entire building, so expects he is being watched from somewhere. Right now, this doesn't worry him. He scans the office quickly, taking in everything he sees; minimalist furnishings, with very few clues towards the man's personal life and relationships.

He moves across the room carefully, straining his ears for approaching security guards or even Aaron Mead himself returning, and pulls open the drawers on the desk. In stark contrast to the rest of the room, they are filled with an untidy detritus of old gum wrappers, broken pencils and scraps of paper; all stuffed roughly away and out of sight. A man who cares for appearances, then, but not one to whom true organisation is important. Sifting through the contents of the drawers, Sherlock finds little of interest to him, and returns to the top of the desk, switching on the computer.

He is greeted by a password screen; it takes only two guesses to get it right and he is in. The wallpaper is a large picture of Mead with an older couple Sherlock immediately recognises as his parents...the only personal item he has discovered in the entire room. Mead was close to them, then...but this is not enough to automatically absolve him, and Sherlock begins clicking his way through private files and programmes, some with further password protection, easily broken.

Striding away from the office half an hour later, he has little new information; the fact that, despite its rather extravagant building, Mead's business is having severe financial difficulties is not news to Sherlock, or, thanks to recent media articles, to anyone else. But Mead seems to have had a good relationship with parents, if no one else particularly. He is not married, does not have a girlfriend – or boyfriend – is an only child and has few associates outside of work. Work is clearly the most important aspect of the man's life...and yet it seems unlikely he would _need_ the inheritance if he was so desperate for money...surely his parents, if their relationship was as good as Sherlock has deduced, would at the very least loan it to him?

Frustrated at this lack of a breakthrough, Sherlock climbs into a taxi uncomfortably, gripping the door even when it inches around corners to avoid the pain of leaning to the side with the movement of the car. He should research this further, but he knows he needs to find out for certain whether or not this is the case he should be working on, and he is sure he can do this more quickly by determining the relevance of the Isobel Parker disappearance.

The pink phone sounds, and Sherlock's heart stops momentarily; he hates it, he _hates_ this, this feeling of...of _vulnerability_...he isn't used to it, and he certainly won't stand for it; he _won't_ let Moriarty stay in control, he _despises_ how this makes him _feel_...so much he wants to scream and throw the mobile from him like a child, clap his hands over his ears and pretend it isn't happening. But he doesn't; he opens the text, and things are no better once he has read it. He knows his face has paled, and his hands give an uncharacteristic shudder as odd phrases jump out at him...

_Tick tock..._

_Time to raise the stakes, Sherlock..._

_One dose every hour, on the hour..._

_Hallucinations..._

_Overdose..._

And one word, above all; _John_.

He needs to move fast, and tells the cab driver to hurry up. He's going to Scotland Yard.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor have I ever, nor **_**will**_** I ever, own Sherlock.**

**AN: Thank you all, again, for the reviews. This chapter is up a day early! Happy reading.  
**

_It's not real it's not real it's not real it's not real..._it's the drugs, whatever Moriarty gave him, they're doing this, it's not real, _none of it is real_.

The heat is definitely there though, John can feel himself sweating, and his heart rate really is that high; he can almost hear it pounding in his chest. But there's nothing in the room to _burn_, certainly nowhere near enough to feed these ravenous flames, so they _can't_ be here – they _can't_...

And that screaming, that horrible screaming that won't fade away even when he claps his hands over his ears and backs himself into a corner with his eyes squeezed shut, that's not here either, that's in his head, it's all in his head...

'_John!_' A woman's voice – Sarah's voice – _no not Sarah it can't be Sarah, Sarah isn't here, she's home and safe and well – _'John, help me!'

A flame flickers outwards and catches his sleeve – he slaps it frantically to put out the fire on his arm, ignoring the part of his brain still shouting at him that _it's not there_.

'John!' This voice is different, a man's, and John recognises it easily – he wants to help, he has to help, but Sherlock's calls are coming from the opposite direction to Sarah, and he can't see either of them through the black smoke and orange flame, he's choking, he can't _breathe_, but he lunges forwards, neither thinking nor caring towards whom he is headed, shielding his face with his arm, the sleeve now singed and ruined. He battles through the inferno, trying to shout for them but he makes no sound apart from hacking coughs – his movements are slowing, like he's walking in quicksand, and the flames creep ever higher; the sound of their crackling fills his ears and they leap and dive around him, threatening to swallow everything into their hungry mouths...

'Please help John!' _Sarah_ – but where _is_ she? He can't see, can barely hear her anymore, every time he turns he is met by another wall of fire, he is trapped, trapped and useless, stuck here while they desperately try to get his attention, they're in _danger_, he needs to find them, but he can't _see_, the flames are going to burn him, kill him, and all he can do is blunder around amongst them...

'John!'

'_John!_'

'John, _help_!' _No, no, not Harry too..._

'I can't see you! I don't know where you are!' He shouts urgently, panicking, turning on the spot –

'Over here!' But over _where_? They sound like they're moving, their voices are swirling into one and he can't tell who is saying what anymore, they're everywhere and nowhere at the same time, echoes in the blaze which threatens to destroy them all – but _it's not real, it can't be, please no, it can't be here, they're not here, it's _not here_..._

* * *

_Tick-tock...every hour, on the hour...until you solve this case...hallucinations...overdose..._John_...tick-tock..._

John.

Sherlock isn't used to being unable to focus; he's usually quite adept at ignoring the irrelevant and concentrating solely on the matter at hand, and he has rarely faced matters more pressing, more demanding of his full attention, than this.

So why can't he shut out the image of John that seems so insistent in his head, or Moriarty's voice, replaying over and over the words of the text? He should be able to push them away as easily as ever; he should be able to look at the _facts _before him with crystal clarity, but his mind feels..._cloudy_. He doesn't like it.

'Then call him out of the meeting,' Sherlock instructs the young officer irritably. The man appears to be on the verge of arguing, but the look Sherlock gives him seems to make him think better of it and he scurries off to find his superior.

Sherlock paces as he waits, unable to keep still. He still doesn't know for certain that Mead is not who he should be investigating, but the quickest way to ascertain his relevance is to either confirm or rule out Isobel Parker's. He can't chase after Mead without at least checking Parker – he could be heading in entirely the wrong direction.

'What now, Sherlock?' Demands Lestrade's angry voice; he looks ruffled and stressed, judging by his unusually obvious attempt to smarten his clothes he has been pulled out of a meeting with someone very important. Normally, Sherlock would make it his business to know precisely who – if he paid attention, he is sure he could work it out in less than a minute, but he doesn't particularly care right now.

'Isobel Parker,' says Sherlock, 'Moriarty.' He doesn't mention the drugs, knowing that Lestrade's reaction will only slow him down.

Momentarily, Lestrade seems torn, but then, looking very much as though he thinks he will regret it later, he tells the man who fetched him to inform 'them' that an urgent matter has come up, and he sends his apologies.

'You know something?' He asks Sherlock, already heading for the door with the taller man by his side.

'Not yet. I need to see the home,' _and asking you is easier and quicker than breaking in, especially if the parents are there._

'He contacted you?' Sherlock nods his reply and climbs awkwardly into Lestrade's car; Lestrade knows better than to comment when he sees the consultant wince.

'What do you know about her disappearance?'

Not much, it turns out, is Lestrade's reply. She vanished on her way home from school yesterday afternoon and hasn't been seen since; no ransom demand, no contact of any sort. No prior threats. No known enemies, either of her or the foster parents. Biological parents are both dead, no living relatives.

It is frustratingly little, but the lack of information is almost comforting – it means they are probably on the right track. Sherlock checks his watch; thirty eight minutes before John's next dose.

The sound of a ringing phone startles both men – Sherlock's phone. _His_ phone, his, not the horrendous pink monstrosity that he would like nothing more than to throw out the window right now; he's not sure if the fact that it is Mycroft, rather than Moriarty, calling him, is or even should be a relief, but he rejects it anyway. Almost immediately, the ringing starts again, and again, Sherlock taps the reject button. He has no time for Mycroft's prattle, and he doesn't care what his brother has to say. Part of him is furious with Mycroft – whatever happened to his damnable surveillance of him and John? What good has _that_ done?

He ignores, to, the text which follows the third failed call, and checks his watch again.

Thirty seven minutes.

* * *

It takes over a quarter of an hour to reach Isobel Parker's address, and when they stop Sherlock practically bursts from the car with no need to look at the time again – he has counted every second as they drove. He knows exactly how many minutes John has before his second injection; he knows it is not enough, but he does his best to force the thoughts away; they are a distraction.

Sherlock takes in the entirety of Kilburn Lane as they approach the front door; opposite the line of red brick houses are a number of shops, and the street is relatively quiet; neither bustling nor silent, though there is nothing in particular to capture Sherlock's attention and he lets is wash past him as he follows half a step behind Lestrade to the front door of number twenty six.

It doesn't take long for the ringing bell to be answered by a couple in their late thirties, both looking exhausted with worry; their concern makes them appear several years older than they really are. The woman is shorter, her eyes red rimmed and her hair a mess; the man looks little better, the corners of his own eyes creased slightly as though squinting to prevent his own tears making themselves shown.

'Detective Inspector...' the man begins, clearly battling with the hope that the sight of the policeman has caused, 'have you found something?'

'We...believe we may have a lead,' Lestrade replies carefully; Isobel's foster mother hugs her husband, bursting into fresh waves of tears as she does; her father beams despite himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his wife. 'This is my – associate,' he decides, after a split-second pause, 'Sherlock Holmes. I would appreciate it if you could allow him to take a look around. He has a...knack for this sort of thing.' If Sherlock or the couple on the doorstep find this explanation unsatisfactory, none of them comment; Sherlock all but pushes his way past them as they step aside to allow the two men entrance.

Sherlock is in the living room before Lestrade or Isobel's parents, stood in the middle and turning on the spot, his gaze piercing every nook and cranny of the space, searching out inconsistencies, anything; something no one else would notice, _anything_, though he isn't sure what...if Isobel was taken on her way home, why would there be anything here? But he must eliminate all extraneous possibilities before he can find the truth, and to do this he needs to observe everything. He pulls open a drawer in the coffee table and rifles through papers.

Harrison Parker watches Detective Inspector Lestrade's 'associate' curiously. The man's name rings a bell, but he cannot think where from. Can this Sherlock Holmes really find Isobel? He can't think of anything here which might lead them to her, but he is glad to let any detective search their home from top to bottom if there is slightest chance of finding her, so he stands back and allows the man to do his work, now sifting through the pile of unopened mail on top of the coffee table.

But...they have received no notes, no threats, no phone calls...is it possible, however much he would like to deny it, that Isobel has left of her own accord? Harrison isn't sure whether to hope for this eventuality or not – either Isobel has voluntarily run away, which would mean she must have been desperately unhappy, or she has been – she's been _kidnapped_. Or worse. He can't let himself think it, he can't...but in the absence of a note...

Sherlock Holmes, he thinks. Sherlock Holmes _has_ to find something...

A note...Sherlock Holmes...a _note_.

Suddenly, with enough force that he physically takes a step back, the reason for the familiarity of the name hits Harrison – _why hasn't he noticed before? Why hasn't he realised?_

Sherlock looks up at the abrupt movement and sees Isobel's father pulling something out of the bin; he wouldn't pay the man any attention, but for the fact that he looks so urgently at the piece of paper – no, the _envelope_ – in his hand.

'I –' Harrison begins, holding out the crumpled envelope under the wide-eyed expression of his wife and the curious frown of Lestrade. Sherlock's gaze is so intense that Harrison cannot hold it, and looks down. 'This came through the letter box yesterday...it was nothing, Isobel was still at school when we got it, I didn't think – we thought it must just be a wrong address, but we didn't know...I threw it away. I only just thought – I just remembered, your name was familiar...'

Sherlock snatches the letter from Harrison without a word, turning it over in his hands, which are shaking, so he can see the name of the addressee, in horribly familiar writing.

_FAO: Sherlock Holmes._

'I'm sorry, I didn't realise –' Harrison tries to explain, alarmed by the momentary look of fury on Sherlock's face, which is quickly replaced by a detached coolness, but he trails away, realising that the man is not listening to a word he is saying. Harrison feels his heart drum roll against his ribs – this definitely means something, he could _kick_ himself for not thinking earlier, not giving this to the police, not doing _something_...Isobel, it was about Isobel and he threw it away, he didn't even _think_, and she could be anywhere by now – he doesn't understand why a note has been left for the detective but he won't question it as long as he gets his daughter back. He feels sick.

Sherlock glances at Lestrade, who has approached him and is peering over his shoulder, before ripping open the envelope with rather more force than strictly necessary, tearing the note inside in his urgency.

A rush, part anger, part thrill, runs through him at the sight of the writing; something akin to excitement flashes across his face. A new puzzle, a new _clue_ - with thirteen minutes before John's next dose.

It is a riddle, which Sherlock reads slowly, as though he will only have one chance to memorise the words.

_My first is in bread, but not in the dough,_

_Next think of speech, or a blow-by-blow._

_Now let your mind soar, don't be shy,_

_I am of course, a ..._

**AN: Feel free to submit your guesses before next chapter; I know it's a fairly bad riddle but I'm no good at writing them. As ever, I hope you enjoyed this instalment. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. You should probably be glad of that fact.**

**AN: Second early update in a row; and this one's actually early for all of you as far as I know, whatever time zone you happen to be in! Well done to those of you who guessed correctly on the riddle (you will know who you are). To those of you who didn't – and who did, actually, read on!**

Sherlock stares intently at the riddle. He knows it should be simple, he should be able to work it out quickly, he should just _know_...but he can't think. The words alone make sense, of course, and even when he splits them up, analyses each individual syllable, they make literary _sense_, but he can't think what they might be pointing to and his frustration only serves to further distract him.

'Do you know what it means?' Asks Lestrade; Harrison Parker's eyes are roving over the page, reading the words upside-down and he is frowning in concentration as he, to, tries to decipher their meaning. His wife does not speak, but they are all breathing far too loudly for Sherlock to be expected to concentrate.

Lestrade seems to take Sherlock's lack of an answer precisely as he should; he steps back and gestures for Harrison and Janice to do the same, mouthing the words _give him space_. They obey automatically, all three of them with their eyes fixed on Sherlock as he continues to read and re-read the riddle. An answer is niggling at the back of his mind, and he knows when it comes to the forefront it will be painfully, stupidly obvious, but the word refuses to form itself into coherent thought. He is distracted.

_My first is in bread...but not in the dough..._

Sherlock's mouth moves to form the words under his breath as he tries to ignore the increasingly irritating presence of three other sources of thought in the room...can they not just be quiet?

Without a word of explanation, Sherlock leaves the room; the Parkers look bewildered, but Lestrade simply rolls his eyes exasperatedly and waits.

Sherlock, once out of the room, returns again the first line of the riddle in the blissful silence of the hallway.

_My first..._

First part of the word, perhaps, or is chronology a clue to the thing's identity? A letter, maybe, the first letter of the word...that makes sense – but it leaves a list of four possibilities.

_Twelve minutes._

The thought does not help.

_Think_, he tells himself, _next clue, come on_...

_Next think of speech_...

Speech...conversation, chatter, talk, communication, dialogue, language...it could mean any number of things.

_Now let your mind soar..._

A nudge for him to think, a taunt, or another clue? _Soar_...fly? It would rhyme. The tickling in the back of his mind increases, but the more he tries to bring it out the more elusive it seems. He _knows_ it will be obvious.

Eleven and a half minutes until the next dose...he feels nauseous for some reason he can't place, he doesn't understand it. He cannot avoid the second injection, but perhaps if he can just solve the riddle he can prevent a third...what's John being given? How many before an overdose is met? _Come on, Sherlock, think!_

Brilliantly, wonderfully clearly, as if he has known it all along, he doesn't know how the answer has managed to evade him for this long, he's been so _stupid_ he actually drives the palm of his hand into his forehead, almost weak with the realisation. _Of course_. How could he not have seen it straight away?

_My first_...letter, B, so _obvious_...

_Think of speech_...to speak, to say, to _utter_...

_Let your mind soar..._let it _fly_.

_I am of course, a _butterfly.

* * *

Lestrade watches Harrison and Janice Parker gripping hands so tightly he is sure it must hurt and feels a familiar pang of guilt that he can do nothing to alleviate their suffering, along with the equally familiar feeling of hope, because Sherlock is on the case now, and if Sherlock can't solve it...

He doesn't want to think about that. Sherlock is on this case because James Moriarty is involved. James Moriarty is involved because he is tormenting Sherlock. He is tormenting Sherlock by holding John Watson captive and quite probably issuing threats Sherlock has failed to mention to Lestrade...after this case, how many more? How many more will be tricked, stolen from, kidnapped, killed – all because James Moriarty is bored, and he has finally found an opponent worthy of his prodigious skill?

Lestrade wants to blame Moriarty entirely, he _wants_ to say it is all the fault of one man, but Sherlock Holmes is just as deeply into this mess, it is because of _him_ that Moriarty has stepped up his game, it's because of _him_ that four people had bombs strapped to their chests and words that did not belong to them spoken through their mouths, because of him that Moriarty does all this, and Lestrade wishes he could absolve the consultant, but he knows he can't; he knows a part of the blame resides with Sherlock. But he is also very much aware, painfully aware, that Sherlock knows this as much as him – a flicker in his expression. A shadow in his eyes, an urgency in his tone...all momentary, all so hard to notice, hidden behind a rigid veil, but maybe he has just spent too much time working with the man, maybe such observations are rubbing off on him, because he doubts that many people have ever had the chance to see Sherlock Holmes feeling _guilty_.

If this riddle can be solved, though, he thinks childishly – if they can keep up with Moriarty at the very least, maybe even get a step ahead of him...perhaps they can all be forgiven.

Lestrade is looking out the front window, avoiding the gazes of Isobel's parents, when Sherlock returns. It feels like he has been in the hall for hours, but in reality Lestrade knows it has only been little over a minute since they found the riddle. Sherlock is flourishing the scrap of paper triumphantly; Lestrade starts forwards, frowning his question. His voice doesn't seem to want to surface.

'Butterflies – do butterflies mean anything to you?' Sherlock asks quickly, not looking at the couple but scanning the room for more clues, searching more specifically now.

'We – we took Isobel to – to the Natural History Museum last...last week...the Butterfly Exhibit was her favourite...'

Sherlock has already left the room by the time Janice finishes her sentence, Lestrade following swiftly with an apologetic glance back.

* * *

John clutches his head, sitting with his back pressed into the corner of the room furthest from the door. His eyes are squeezed shut and he is gritting his teeth, ignoring his sweaty palms and self-diagnosed tachycardia. If his mind was clearer, he might make an attempt at figuring out which drug he has been given based on his symptoms, but all of his effort is currently being used to drive away the hallucinations, which are becoming much harder to resist. He flexes his fist to control its shaking.

At least, he thinks scathingly, he can now count the hours down more accurately; the second dose means an hour has passed. He wonders how far Sherlock has got in the case, and feels panic curl in his stomach.

_Sherlock really ought to learn to use his time more efficiently_.

That's what Moriarty said...does this mean Sherlock can't solve the case? Is he following misleading clues? Not knowing what's happening is so _frustrating_!

His lip is still bleeding from his most recent effort to stand up to Moriarty. It was a stupid thing to do, he tells himself; he still has no idea why he thought it was actually a good idea, but he had felt none of the fear he usually does when facing the man, and taken a dangerous risk. Perhaps, he thinks, this too is a result of the drugs. Either way it doesn't matter; all he has now is another injury to add to the list, and nothing else to show for his moment of daring.

He is lucky he only has a sore jaw now. Moriarty, for whatever reason, has decided, it seems, to keep him alive. The thought makes John angry, which he knows is strange, but Moriarty doesn't do anything without a reason and he doubts the reason is going to be pleasant.

Taking deep breaths to keep himself calm, John redoubles his efforts to force away the hallucinations.

* * *

Sherlock relies on Lestrade's badge to get them into the Natural History Museum unimpeded, and it works; both push their way past both visitors and staff, Lestrade apologising every now and then, Sherlock decidedly silent.

The entrance to the Butterfly Exhibit is a large globe of thick, cross-hatched blue rods, curved into a sphere; patches of green are affixed to it in the shape of land masses and a ring of the same blue as the rods has been wrapped around just above the middle, bearing huge white letters declaring _Butterfly Explorers_. The 'x' has been replaced with a butterfly, and a blue rectangle stands beside it, reading _Entrance_.

Sherlock takes this in instantaneously, searching the structure for imperfections or abnormalities as he approaches with a flustered and out of breath Lestrade close on his heels. They enter swiftly with another hurried flash of Lestrade's badge.

'What are we looking for here?' Asks Lestrade quickly before Sherlock can rush off once more.

'Anything out of place,' Sherlock responds. Lestrade rolls his eyes; he's guessed as much, he simply hoped Sherlock could work out something more specific. Controlling his irritation, he moves off in the opposite direction to the consultant, telling himself firmly that Sherlock may be brilliant, but he is not _psychic_; how can he be expected to know what they're after if he hasn't been given a clue?

Neither Sherlock nor Lestrade is wearing anything obvious to denote their purpose here, but the tourists seem to understand their urgency and move out of their way without the need for speech or the showing of ID. Some recognise them, and are intrigued; most are simply cowed by their air of superiority, which Sherlock especially emanates without effort. Many have stopped to watch their frantic progress throughout the exhibit; several children are pointing and giggling, and the parents are whispering with concern.

Sherlock has no time for them, using the adrenalin pumping through his veins as fuel and bending his excitement at the puzzle, his frustration at not being able to work it out sooner, his anger at Moriarty, to his will. It works now to sharpen his focus and stave off the aching tiredness that weighs down his limbs.

There are so many places Moriarty could have hidden a clue. So many places Moriarty could have his men placed to spy on Sherlock – in the crowds of tourists, who would notice a couple of extra people? Ordinarily, the answer would be Sherlock. But Moriarty knows him, he knows how to hide from him...he stood right _next_ to him, he _talked_ to him, and Sherlock didn't figure it out...

Clumps of foliage, under which another note, or else a piece of seemingly innocuous evidence could be hidden – areas signposted and displayed as representing places of the world – so many people milling around, almost all of them carrying bags – a group of schoolchildren with bulky backpacks stood together with their teacher, peering at him curiously – it could be _anywhere_.

Think it through.

Moriarty seems to be sending Sherlock through the girl's footsteps, leading him to her favourite exhibit. He doubts this is where he will find her, of course, and fully expects another tantalising hint; much harder to find. But if he is sending Sherlock in Isobel's general direction...why not be more specific? Which route through the place could she have taken?

Glancing around, Sherlock sees every child is carrying a small piece of paper, a brightly coloured leaflet covered with stamps. A closer inspection of the area reveals several stations where these stamps are apparently obtained; a route through the exhibit – he turns quickly and strides to the first, closest to the entrance. A red stand like a folded figure of eight, wooden, a square-ish metal contraption set atop it. Nothing else; nothing behind or underneath or beside. Sherlock moves to the next one.

Realising what Sherlock is doing, Lestrade begins from the other end, working their way along the path towards each other, pausing at every stamp and checking every inch for something that shouldn't be there. Lestrade doesn't ask about Sherlock's reasoning; he's learned to just accept it in situations like this.

At the fourth station, Sherlock stops; he doesn't need to scrutinise this one nearly as carefully, he can already see what he is supposed to find; sticking out from under the plants growing around it is something bright pink and curved with a label designed to look like a piano key – the back of a shoe.

Sherlock crouches down slowly and eases it from its hiding place; it catches on the branches but comes out smoothly enough.

Lestrade is beside him, watching; tourists are leaning in for a closer look, curious.

Sherlock turns the shoe over quickly in his hands, tipping it up and looking at the bottom, teasing open the tightly knotted laces and running his fingers over the sides. It is just a shoe; nothing out of the ordinary about it. Well worn, though, and almost definitely Isobel's. This is certainly what he was supposed to find.

He puts his hand inside it, reaching his fingers down to the toe and closing them around a piece of paper. He pulls out another folded note.

**AN: I haven't the foggiest what the NHM's Butterfly Exhibit looks like 'in the flesh' so to speak; I only know from what photos I could find on their website. If you have been, and I'm horribly wrong, then I apologise profusely but I did my best!**

**Also, apologies if you thought the riddle too easy; I'm not very good at writing them. **

**I hope you enjoyed this instalment. :) **


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: Again, all London geography is from internet trawling. Chapter dedication to prettybirdy979, I hope I've got this up soon enough for you!**

Sherlock unfolds the note carefully. Its discovery has caused several unwanted feelings to flare up again, which he quickly identifies and files according to their importance...excitement, curiosity and anger. Useful, when harnessed. Indignation, anxiety, that second-long flicker of something close to panic. Hindrances, irritants, and stowed away into the recess at the back of his mind that he tries very hard never to look into.

He concentrates on the note.

_K ol ygk kgdqf._

It looks, at first glance, like utter nonsense; there are no instantly obvious patterns to the letters and no cipher that he recognises straight away. But on a second inspection it is painfully simple, and a small smile unfurls itself on Sherlock's face; he can work this out without the need for the phone Lestrade is pulling out of his pocket, for the Detective Inspector was only a moment behind him in coming to the same conclusion. Lestrade peers intently at his mobile's QWERTY keyboard, muttering under his breath as he cross references with the paper Sherlock is still holding. The piano _key _label. Keyboard. Obvious.

Sherlock needs no keypad; he can picture one perfectly in his head.

So very _simple_; each letter of the true message replaced by imagining the letters of a keyboard arranged in alphabetical order, and striking the key in place of the one which would be there.

Using this system, 'R' becomes 'K'.

The first letter of the clue is 'R'.

'I' becomes 'O'. 'S' becomes 'L'. The next word reveals itself as 'is'.

Sherlock comes to the answer before Lestrade, not having to glance between the keys of a phone, counting and recounting the letters along it, checking them against the note.

_K ol ygk kgdgf_ becomes _R is for Roman._

This is the best result they have had so far, and Sherlock immediately starts to walk towards the exit without a word; Lestrade follows quickly.

Roman.

This could mean almost anything...a road, a building, a case, another exhibit...

He silences his phone, which has begun ringing again, and returns to his thoughts as he and Lestrade approach the car.

He doesn't have the time, and doubts Lestrade would grant him the manpower, to search every single location which could be suggested by the word 'Roman'; John will receive a third dose in just over half an hour, he needs to narrow down the field – he needs to _think_ without Mycroft calling incessantly on his mobile. He gives the text – _answer your phone _– a cursory glance before switching it off, frustrated by its distraction and his own physical weariness.

He has barely stuffed the offending technology back into his pocket before the pink phone, too, begins bleeping at him – much more eager to hear from Moriarty than his brother, hoping it will be something to focus his search – Sherlock quickly opens the message.

_An Emperor stands guard._

He stares at the screen.

_An Emperor stands guard._

Moriarty knows he has solved the clue. Moriarty is _watching_.

Or at the very least, Moriarty has somebody watching for him – he should have expected this; Sherlock's head snaps up so fast it cricks, and rubbing it absently he peers intently around him – Lestrade automatically follows suite without knowing what on Earth he is actually looking for. But of course, any spy of the consulting criminal will be well disguised to the point that even Sherlock Holmes would have difficulty picking them out, and even if he manages to shake one, more will probably come. Concluding that to seek out their watcher would be a waste of valuable time, Sherlock instead thinks of the clue.

Roman; an Emperor stands guard.

He knows London better than anyone, and immediately thinks of a location – perhaps the largest fragment of what remains of the Roman Wall of London is situated beside a replica monument of Emperor Trajan.

'Tower Hill,' Sherlock says as they climb into the car; Lestrade nods, and turns the key in the ignition. He would like to argue; he would like to demand to know how Sherlock is coming to these conclusions, but they need this solved and God help him, he trusts the man's mind if nothing else.

It is ten minutes before either man speaks again, and much to Sherlock's annoyance the sound to break the silence is the ringing of Lestrade's mobile. Those things are really beginning to grate on his nerves.

'Tell him to mind his own business,' Sherlock says; Lestrade, driving, has not even touched his phone, and gives Sherlock a startled look.

'What are you -?'

'Tell Mycroft that I can manage perfectly well without his assistance. He seems incapable of taking a hint.' The look of contempt on Sherlock's face for his older sibling's involvement is enough to make Lestrade avert his gaze, immensely glad that he has never had to witness an outright argument between the two of them.

'How do you know it's him?' Lestrade asks,

'You were surprisingly willing to leave your meeting,' Sherlock begins, eyeing Lestrade's tie irritably, 'he has been unable to contact me directly, and you haven't said anything about the car which is, rather obviously, tailing us; given the situation and your profession it should make you suspicious, which implies either you are even more stupid than I thought and haven't noticed, or you already know who it is.' Lestrade huffs moodily, supposing he should be grateful Sherlock has come to the latter conclusion. He should take it as a compliment.

'He might actually be able to help,' he says, fully expecting the derisive noise he receives in reply, 'Christ, Sherlock, I hardly want to deal with more than one Holmes at once myself, but he seems to have resources I couldn't drum up in a month of Sundays, let alone in the sort of time we have – don't you think it might help to bury your pride for once?'

'No.'

Lestrade is silent for a long moment. Much as he is sure no mind can surpass Sherlock's, even the man's older brother, Sherlock is just one man; Mycroft Holmes has teams of men and women ready to do his bidding at a moment's notice, he has access to things Lestrade's security clearance wouldn't let him so much as sniff – he is perhaps one of the very few people with as much influence as Moriarty. They need help.

'What if I were to bring him on in a professional sense?' He asks, somewhat slyly.

'I won't work with him,' Sherlock states simply,

'Yes you would. You aren't going to walk away from this, not now.' Because he can't leave the game; he can't leave Moriarty; he can't leave John. Lestrade says none of these things, but he sees them in Sherlock's face as his icy eyes blaze momentarily with a frightening intensity.

'Not _this_,' Sherlock responds, 'but him, yes, quite happily; and you in the process. You won't risk that; you need me.'

'You can't do this on your own...' but his sentence trails away to nothing under Sherlock's withering glare. Lestrade isn't certain which Holmes brother scares him more, but, he thinks with a sideways glance at the younger of the two, better the devil you know.

* * *

John is bleeding. His nose this time, and not due to being struck by any of Moriarty's thugs – no, John is tempted to blame the drugs. He is also tempted to attribute his slowly subsiding giggles to their effect; somehow the whole situation had momentarily seemed quite hilarious.

As the feeling passes, John finds his mind just clear enough to list his symptoms, but not clear enough yet to fathom what their cause might be – he is a medical man, he reminds himself, a doctor, a _very good_ doctor, by his own admission – but the drugs have clouded his mind and their identity remains a mystery.

Hallucinations; rapid heart rate; raised temperature; and now, nose bleeds and brief euphoria.

Brief, because now it has passed and he finds himself sinking into an unmistakable 'low'. He wants more. He wants that _high_ again, and this disgusts him, he wants _more_, now, he wants to feel invincible again just for a few moments, just a few moments and that will be all, he swears – but what is he thinking? How can he even entertain such a thought?

He is entirely under Moriarty's control. He's trapped. He's never getting out of here...

No – he can't think like that, that's not _him_ thinking, this encroaching despair is the come-down off the drugs, he can wait it out, he'll just wait for it to pass, Sherlock will find him, or else he'll escape himself, he has to...

His hand shakes; not from nerves. It never shakes from nerves.

He can add tremors to the list of symptoms.

Gripping his hands tightly together in front of him to control the muscle spasms, John takes several deep breaths, ignoring his erratic heart rate and the thin sheen of sweat across his face.

Sherlock needs to solve this case, quickly, before the next hour is up and John is subjected to another dose...

And yet at the same time, John can't help but _want_ the third injection...

* * *

James Moriarty has made a mistake.

He doesn't think he has, not yet, but he will. He will know that he has crossed a line that no one should cross, and he will regret it, because he has made many enemies in the past; there are many, _many_ people who, if they knew who he was, would wish him dead.

None of these enemies are as dangerous as the one he has most recently acquired, though to look at him this new adversary would seem no more of a threat than appearances would have the consulting criminal thought of as being.

Appearances, though, can be deceiving.

James Moriarty looks harmless; a small, suited man with forgettable features and a changeable demeanour.

Mycroft Holmes looks relatively harmless as well.

Both images are false.

At this moment, Mycroft seems like a bored businessman in the back of a car so non-descript as to defy its purpose and stand out quite obviously, probably on the way to or from another meeting he holds no real interest in. His gaze is apparently fixed on nothing in particular, his expression mild and unreadable; he is silent and so is his driver.

But Mycroft's attention is on the car in front, where Sherlock and Lestrade are sitting; Sherlock is not responding to Mycroft's texts or calls, though he hardly expects him to. Sherlock is stubborn, and unlikely to ever accept his brother's help. Detective Inspector Lestrade is a useful contact, though his influence on Sherlock is rather minimal; calling him, whilst knowing the man is not going to answer, was a gesture to Sherlock. Mycroft will be involved in this investigation whether or not his brother is happy about it.

Sherlock will not stop this chase; he relishes it, he lives for it, but it is much more than a game now, and Mycroft knows that Sherlock will not eat, sleep, or so much as pause for breath until Moriarty is caught. Dutiful concern has Mycroft personally following Sherlock, determined to find the man who has taken John Watson, who has already saved Sherlock's life more than once, Mycroft knows.

James Moriarty is a danger to Sherlock in more ways than one; Mycroft won't stand for this. Harming Sherlock has been Moriarty's greatest error.

* * *

Sherlock is out of the car before Lestrade has managed to extract himself from his seatbelt, ignoring the second vehicle which stops beside theirs and pointedly not looking at the man who steps out of it. Mycroft follows him towards the statue nonetheless, as several people pile out of the third car to stop and fan out across the area; Mycroft's, Sherlock observes.

Before them is a stretch of blank, crumbling wall; largely unimpressive to Sherlock, he doesn't see the value in a construct of stone which no longer serves a purpose, however old is it and however formidable it may once have been. Now it is grey and decrepit, a leftover from a time period he knows little of. Unimportant.

The statue is of a man whose clothing is carved so intricately it almost looks like real fabric, one hand held in the air above his head and the other clutching a scroll to his side; this is the hand Sherlock is interested in. Rolled tightly and slotted within the model scroll held by the Emperor is a real piece of paper, bright white against the darkness of the hand holding it.

Sherlock wastes no time in removing and unrolling it; Mycroft and Lestrade are both behind him now as he reads the next clue.

_OS CGZINOTM EUA YNK XRIQ. IGT EUA YKK NKX EKX?_

'Ceaser shift cipher,' says Mycroft unhelpfully; Sherlock glares at him.

'I had realised.' He replies tersely. That much is obvious, he thinks...the Roman hint could mean little else...each letter in the true message has been replaced with another a fixed number of letters, chosen by the writer, further along the alphabet. But how many letters have they been shifted by?

'Have you received any correspondence relating to numbers?' Mycroft asks. Sherlock pointedly moves away from him and waves his hand impatiently at Lestrade, who looks confused for a moment, but Sherlock merely gestures more forcefully. Realising with a start what he's asking for, Lestrade rummages frantically in his pocket and withdraws a cracked plastic biro, which he hands to Sherlock.

Using the statue's arm to lean on, Sherlock scrawls the alphabet along the bottom of the note.

The clue leading them here was discovered at the fourth stamp station of the Butterfly Exhibit.

No; jotting down an alphabet shifted forwards by four letters beneath the first one, Sherlock translates the message as _KO YCVEJKPI AQW UJG TNEM. ECP AQW UGG JGT AGV? _Not four letters.

Twenty-six Kilburn Lane.

No again; that would leave every letter exactly the same.

Seventy-nine Saint George's Drive.

No; seventy-nine is far too high a number.

What else? One hour between each injection? No, one doesn't work...

Of _course_! Six! _Robert Spencer. Six hours._ Why else give him such a long time to solve such a simple case? Oh, _brilliant_, so simple, so obvious! The one number out of place in all the clues; he writes down an alphabet shifted by six letters, smiling now.

The message becomes _I'M WATCHING YOU SHERLOCK. CAN YOU SEE HER YET?_

**AN: I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, especially Mycroft's scene, but I hope it turned out okay. Reviews are love. :)**

**Next chapter: another clue solved, an unexpected revelation and discussion of Moriarty's ultimate plan...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Conan Doyle would be spinning in his grave...by which of course I mean, I do not own Sherlock Holmes in any of his incarnations.  
**

**AN: This is only half the intended chapter; it got carried away and ended up heading towards being twice as long it should, so here is 'part one' – part two comes as a shiny new chapter next week!**

_I'M WATCHING YOU SHERLOCK. CAN YOU SEE HER YET?_

Sherlock looks up and sweeps his gaze over his surroundings carefully, quickly dismissing anything unimportant; even as he comes to the conclusion himself, Mycroft's people, now spread across the area, signal the negative to them.

No Moriarty; no Isobel.

Lestrade looks disappointed and angry; Mycroft his usual unflappable self. Sherlock frowns; not a literal clue then, but still probably pointing them towards her...

"_M" is for "Moriarty"... _

"_O" is for "Orphan"..._

"_R" is for "Roman"..._

_I'm watching you..._I_'m watching you Sherlock...can you see her yet? _

"I". The clue must be _I_...watching him? See her? "I"..._Eye_.

'Brilliant,' he murmurs, allowing himself a moment of smugness at the ease of the hint; Moriarty surely expected it to take him longer? 'The London Eye,' he announces, louder – Lestrade nods, his expression oddly frozen, and starts back towards his car – Mycroft takes a step towards Sherlock and opens his mouth to suggest travelling together, but Sherlock is already following the Detective Inspector. He has no intention of allowing Mycroft to speak to him; he has far more important things to be focusing on.

* * *

Lestrade has the sirens on as they drive, and doesn't say a word for the whole journey, which they make in half the time thanks to the swift parting of traffic in their path. Sherlock is grateful for the silence, grateful for the chance to think without interruption for a few short minutes at least.

This doesn't feel as it should. Or perhaps, he thinks bitterly, this is exactly how he ought to feel; how he is expected to feel at any rate. The idea only makes him even more glad of his usually infallible ability to shut down his emotions when they are inconvenient to him – why on Earth would he find it desirable to allow himself to feel like this?

He is angry...not an unfamiliar emotion, certainly...frustration he is more than used to, the irritation of working with people so unbearably dull as he has to, the maddening boredom of such a mundane existence as he endures between worthy cases...anger at Mycroft for sticking his nose in where it's not welcome, anger with Anderson for his pointless interferences at crime scenes, anger with himself when the answer to a puzzle manages to evade him for too long...

He is quite accustomed to the feeling of anger.

Fury is another matter – he's not sure he really knew what it meant before now, and the thought actually unnerves him a little...he can always, _always_ control exactly how much emotion he wants to feel; he allows through what he wishes, and dismisses the rest as it becomes necessary. It's so _easy_.

But this...this _hurts_, this is...uncontrollable. He can't package it away, no matter how hard he tries, it _burns_, and he wonders momentarily if this is what Moriarty's threat meant – it's a horrible, heady feeling, it makes him want to scream, but more than anything it makes him want to find Moriarty, make him pay for supposing to win, to threaten him...to threaten _John_. He's nauseous too; he feels as though he might throw up, which makes no sense because he hasn't eaten in...hours. He doesn't know how many, it doesn't matter. But his insides are twisting themselves together uncomfortably and...he's worried. He doesn't worry, he doesn't get concerned for people...people are irrelevant, unimportant, only the puzzle is important, only the game matters...

Not now, though; now he's feeling so much emotion he can barely believe a single person can really contain it – is this how normal people experience their lives? How can they stand it? And why won't his off switch work?

He is _furious_. He hates Moriarty for what he's doing even as he glories in the mystery, the intrigue, of this – even as he loves it, he despises it. He hates himself for not working faster, for not being able to shut down these ridiculous emotional impulses. He hates John, for strolling into his life and making things so very confusing and complicated.

He's _afraid_. And he _hates_ being afraid.

* * *

Lestrade is unnerved by the look on Sherlock's face, and pulls the car to a lurching stop with relief; the man was stock-still the whole journey but his eyes are blazing. It's a frightening sight, especially in someone to whom emotion is a foreign concept.

Sherlock spots at least three of Moriarty's men within twenty seconds of stopping; all casually dressed and behaving as if to blend into the crowd, but seeming a little too relaxed, a little too unfazed by the noisy appearance of a police car in their midst, followed closely by two black vehicles, out of which climb five or six government workers, all suited and calmly professional looking.

Isobel is definitely here; they must be guarding her, preventing her from running...

Lestrade is talking urgently into his radio; Mycroft's people are once more spreading out across the area.

Sherlock is walking towards a girl stood silently watching them beside a building, with wide eyes and dirty blonde hair. She is wearing only one shoe.

'Isobel Parker?' He asks as soon as he is within hearing distance; she nods, terrified, with a glance towards the closest of her watchers.

'Are you Sherlock Holmes?' She manages to squeak, barely audible. She is not looking at him, her eyes are still on the guard.

'I am,'

'He said – the man said t – to tell you to go home.' She's shaking, and her voice is so quiet Sherlock can hardly hear what she's saying, but her eyes are dry. A part of him finds itself respecting her.

'Is that all?' He demands quickly. Lestrade has spotted them, and is hurrying over.

'Go home and wait,' she tells him, 'that's what he said...he said I had to tell you that, and then I could go back to my house and he would leave me alone – is he going to leave me alone now?' She pleads, tears finally beginning to well in her eyes. She's quivering, and looks as though she might collapse at any moment.

'Yes,' Sherlock replies, certain of the truth of his answer; Moriarty's interest in Isobel is finished now, and so is his, 'he will.'

He turns as Lestrade reaches them, unsurprised to see Isobel's guards melting away into the background, unnoticeable amongst the civilians.

Lestrade makes no attempt to stop him as he strides away and climbs into the nearest taxi; it never crosses Sherlock's mind not to return to Baker Street, any potential danger in doing so swamped by his need for the next clue. His relief is almost as debilitating as his anger and he leans back into the seat, checking his watch...John has received a third dose. But only just; Sherlock has more than enough time to get back to the flat and post the result on his website for Moriarty to find before the next one is due...

He has won this round.

* * *

Arriving at the flat, Sherlock digs in his pocket for money and pushes several crumpled notes into the cabbie's hand, not bothering to check by how much they exceed his fare.

The end of the case, and the petering out of the associated adrenalin, is making his limbs heavy with weariness and his chest and abdomen are aching once more, but he doesn't entertain the thought of resting for even a second as he enters the living space of the flat, which looks exactly as he left it...how long ago now? Over a week...

Mrs Hudson comes in behind him, wringing her hands and smiling awkwardly at him, though it doesn't reach her red-rimmed eyes; she looks tired with worry.

'Oh, Sherlock, I'm so pleased you're okay! The things I've been hearing...and you haven't been back here once! I expect you've been working on this terrible business with that bomber haven't you? I shouldn't worry, dear, I'm sure you'll catch him in no time. You'll find John soon, you mark my words.' Sherlock doesn't reply, and the silence hangs in the air for several seconds before Mrs Hudson breaks it once more, 'I'll make you some tea shall I?' She suggests lamely, fixing him with the sort of sympathetic look one might employ on a sick child.

'That would be lovely,' Sherlock scowls at the voice; Mycroft is stood behind Mrs Hudson, who jumps, her hand flying to her chest,

'You gave me a fright!' She gasps, turning towards Mycroft, whose hands are clasped together on top of his umbrella, the end of which is digging into the carpet between his feet.

'I apologise,' he says neatly, flashing her a polite smile, 'that tea you mentioned?'

'Oh – of course.' Looking slightly bewildered, and with a quick, nervous glance between the two men, she hurries out, leaving the brothers alone in the room.

Sherlock notices now, moving further forwards, the difference in the flat; his laptop is perched in John's chair. He snatches it up and opens it.

'Detective Inspector Lestrade is taking care of the girl,' Mycroft says, 'she was physically unharmed by the experience; she will be back with her parents in a few hours.'

'Good,' says Sherlock distractedly, his voice devoid of real concern. That case is finished; Isobel is found, and the police can take things from here. It is no longer his problem.

'Did you pause to consider the possibility that her message may have been a trap?'

'No.' Sherlock replies, tapping swiftly on the laptop and bringing up his website, typing in _Isobel Parker found at London Eye. Case closed._

'This man is quite clearly –'

'He said he was saving that up for something special,' Sherlock interrupts impatiently, 'I hardly think a booby trap of the flat counts, especially after leading me through London on this chase...he'll want to be there.'

'And what made you think he wouldn't be _here_?'

Sherlock doesn't respond.

'You realise that he is leading you towards himself as well as John?'

'Obviously he is, or there would be no entertainment to him.'

'Then you realise his intention is more than likely to kill you?' Mycroft states bluntly; Sherlock is looking at his laptop screen, refreshing the page, and doesn't see the flicker of painful concern on his brother's face. Mycroft's expression is once more schooled to be utterly blank by the time he turns back around.

'That would seem to be his plan.'

'And you will simply go along with it?'

'What would you suggest?' Sherlock's voice is dripping sarcasm, his foot tapping impatiently on the floor...Moriarty ordered him back here. Why? There's clearly no trap...why tell him to come here?

'Are you certain that you are judging the situation rationally?' Mycroft asks; Sherlock glares at him as he stands and grabs a map from the bookshelf, sweeping the coffee table clear and laying it out.

'Meaning what?' He challenges defensively,

'Meaning that if Moriarty intends to murder you, perhaps walking into his waiting arms is not the best idea; you should be finding another way to do this Sherlock. You are letting your emotions cloud your judgement.'

'I am making a perfectly logical decision,' Sherlock snaps; Mycroft watches him rummage through a draw and pull out a bright red marker pen.

'Do tell,'

'If I follow the trail and it leads me to Moriarty, he will more than likely attempt to kill me.' Again, his gaze is not on Mycroft when the elder man's face creases into a wince. 'He may or may not succeed; if I don't, then John and probably a large proportion of other people will _definitely _die. Please explain to me where the math involved leads to the second outcome being more desirable.'

'So you are basing your decision on nothing more than a balance of damage control?'

Sherlock doesn't reply, circling the address of seventy nine Saint George's Drive on the map.

'You would die for him?' Mycroft asks quietly,

'That is not my intention.'

'You would _risk_ death for him then?' He pauses, frowning at Sherlock. He'd never have thought, before John Watson, that Sherlock would really care about another person...not like this. He isn't pleased by the revelation though; he is annoyed – the emergence of emotion from his brother could not have come at a worse time. 'Does self preservation mean nothing to you?'

Sherlock mutters something which sounds very much like 'boring' as he reaches across and refreshes the page again. He's getting tenser by the minute; why has Moriarty not replied?

'At the very least will you accept my assistance?'

'I don't need your assistance,' All the circles are drawn now; one around the house at Saint George's Drive, one at Kilburn Lane, and another two at the Natural History Museum and London Eye. Joining them together in chronological order creates what looks like a rather crudely drawn fish; instead linking them so that a path is created directly from one to the next is a vague, crooked curve. Neither arrangement reveals anything Sherlock thinks might be important, but he is sure that none of the clues he has been sent can mean nothing. There must be a pattern _somewhere_, and if he can work it out without the need for more hints, he can stay a step ahead of Moriarty...

'You have a message.' Says Mycroft suddenly, pointing to the laptop screen; Sherlock looks up and sees a comment to his post. _Ring-ring!_ – nothing else – and Sherlock grabs for the pink phone seconds before the call comes in.

'_Tut, tut, Sherlock,_' are Moriarty's first words,

'I solved the case,' Sherlock replies,

'_Yes, you solved _that_ case...but did you really think it would be so easy_?' Sherlock freezes at his nemesis's words, and hears a chuckled down the phone. Mycroft is watching him, but doesn't speak. '_Oh I would_ so _love to have Johnny talking to you right now – but I'm afraid he's a little indisposed. The seizures are quite something to behold, Sherlock. You should see them._'

'What are you giving him? Stop whatever it is, I solved the case. I solved it.' Sherlock snaps, his voice teetering on the edge of losing control. He tries to keep it expressionless, but Moriarty hears his urgency and laughs again. 'You said –'

'_But I do believe, Sherlock, that I gave you _three _possible cases_?' Silence. 'Now _you're catching on...don't worry, one of them isn't mine. Solve the other one, and _then _we can talk about our deal. I've already given you all the information you need._'

He trails away, letting the silence hang for long enough to thoroughly enjoy the effect his revelation has surely had on Sherlock before hanging up; Sherlock is visited by an urge to fling the phone from him and shatter it against the wall, but instead holds onto it more tightly than ever.

Aaron Mead and Hilary James; he shouldn't have dismissed them so easily.

He can only hope his mistake is not a fatal one.

**AN: Chapter dedication to 'Me' (yeah that sounds weird...) – your reviews are anonymous so I can't reply properly, but thank you so much for them; I'm very glad you are enjoying it and that I was able to make you feel better. I hope you've recovered by now! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: Chapter dedication to 'dmdlr' for being the hundredth reviewer!**

The text comes in, as Sherlock knew that it would, almost as soon as the little click sounds to tell him that Moriarty has hung up.

One letter; it simply reads "_A_".

Mycroft doesn't speak as Sherlock lowers the mobile to his side, watching his brother in complete silence, a small frown creasing his features. Sherlock is staring at the map in front of him, but doesn't seem to be looking at it; his gaze is distant and unfocused, and he is completely still.

_He's a little indisposed. _

What does that mean? How many more doses can John withstand before permanent damage is done?

_The seizures are quite something to behold_.

But that only leaves Sherlock with two symptoms; hallucinations and seizures could be caused by any number of things, he can't narrow down the area – he shouldn't be thinking about this, he should be focusing on solving the case...he has less than an hour if he wants to avoid the next injection. Why now, when it is more important than it has ever been, _why_, can Sherlock not force his mind to concentrate?

The clues...there must be a pattern in the clues.

_M, O, R _and _I_. The next is clearly _A_, even without the text it only makes sense...Aaron, perhaps? Aaron Mead...certainly it would fit, but is it too obvious, too easy? The Hilary James case, though, seems so simple – already solved, surely?

But it must be _one_ of them...

'Will you allow me to help you?' Asks Mycroft; Sherlock doesn't reply straight away, though he knows what his answer must be. He could surely get both cases solved himself eventually, and would ordinarily love to throw this fact in Mycroft's face, but he can't do it in the time he has – much as it irks him to admit it, Mycroft could be of use.

'I need information,' he says eventually, 'Aaron Mead and Hilary James. Now.' He thrusts his laptop towards Mycroft with a pained look on his face, as though doing so goes against his very core beliefs. Mycroft takes it, thankfully without comment.

While Mycroft accesses the necessary files, Sherlock paces. He examines the map, he draws lines in every direction conceivable onto it and pulls out his nicotine patches, slapping three onto his arm without hesitation and only stopping without adding more when Mycroft sends him a withering look. The look is not what halts his progress – he doesn't care whether or not Mycroft approves, but he knows that his brother would readily take the patches away, which Sherlock would rather avoid. He resists the urge to use anything more potent; he needs to be ready to act.

'Have you found anything yet?' Sherlock demands after ten minutes of restless movement; for every moment Mycroft wastes in some ridiculous attempt to prove a point or else to keep from Sherlock the fact that he can't help, after all, John is closer to another dose...from Moriarty's words Sherlock can only assume that the doctor's body cannot take much more of it.

'Aaron Mead is entirely innocent.' Mycroft tells him calmly, seeming for all the inflection in his voice to be reporting a rather tedious matter. Sherlock had already thought as much, but to hear it disappoints him; it would have been so simple. 'I can find nothing of relevance on Hilary James. Certain files pertaining to her life prior to approximately four years ago are sealed.'

'And you can't access them?' Sherlock asks irritably, though the news of a difficulty is actually somewhat soothing to his agitation; it means that this _must_ be the right case – if only he had seen it before.

'Not from here,' Mycroft says, and before Sherlock can reply he is placing a call, demanding that someone in whom Sherlock has no interest send him the files immediately. Sherlock waits impatiently for him to hang up; in the lulls between activity, his mind keeps replaying the events of the past ten days in a reel around his head that refuses to stop – he cannot switch it off. Moriarty's voice; his threats; the bomb; the sniper lights; John's abduction; the clues, the cases, the drugs, the ever shortening amount of time they have to solve Hilary's case; now thirty five minutes.

Now thirty, when Mycroft begins to sound agitated.

Now twenty-eight when he threatens to sack the nameless person on the other end of the phone for withholding the information from him. Twenty-seven and a half when he exclaims that he couldn't care less that the files are supposed to be sealed.

Twenty-six when he finally puts the phone in his pocket and turns back to the laptop, once more as cool as ever and giving no sign that the phone call was anything more than a minor inconvenience.

* * *

Counting helps.

It reminds John of how long he has been here and how little time there is before the next dose, but he tries not to think about these. He simply recites the numbers under his breath, concentrating on keeping count and making sure to stick to the steady pace he has chosen to mark the passage of the seconds. The time since the last injection stretches into minutes and John keeps track of every one of them.

_One thousand and eighty, one thousand and eighty one, one thousand and eighty two..._

Nearly twenty minutes since Moriarty last spoke to Sherlock, John knows.

_One thousand and eighty eight..._

He has until three thousand six hundred before the next injection. He has a good idea of what he might be being given now at least, though this knowledge does little to help him except to make him very aware of what is likely to happen next, which is far from comforting. This, John thinks bitterly, is probably the reason Moriarty chose to give him such a hint.

_Oh, this? _Gesturing to the needle in the hand of his henchman, smiling. _Something I'm sure Sherlock is familiar with, at least._

John should have seen it before.

_One thousand one hundred and two..._

Springing to his feet, John starts to walk the same circuit of the room as he has done countless times by now; not in the hope of finding anything new, but because in his restlessness he can't sit still. His movements are jerky and sudden, and he is still muttering the numbers under his breath.

His mind is just clear enough to register that to anyone watching (which he assumes Moriarty is) he must look completely mad.

_One thousand one hundred and fifteen..._

He swipes angrily at the blood which once more begins to flow from his nose; it doesn't bother him as much as it might, though; he is just grateful this is only as far as the symptoms have progressed. He knows exactly what to expect now, and buries the craving he feels for more of the drug with the reminder of what it might very well bring.

Hallucinations; tachycardia; nose bleeds; euphoria; anxiety; depression; tremors; fever, even seizures - all the joys he has endured of being injected with cocaine; all the symptoms of approaching a fatal overdose.

Delirium, respiratory arrest, heart attack, brain haemorrhage and death; just some of things he could have yet to look forward to.

_One thousand one hundred and thirty nine..._

* * *

The map, which Sherlock has taken to studying once more while Mycroft accesses the necessary files, is now criss-crossed with so many different coloured lines a definitive pattern is almost impossible to discern amidst them.

The first and most obvious – and, if Sherlock is honest, rather crude – explanation is that the locations are intended as a literal trail, and the curve of their arrangement seems to hint at – perhaps – the eventual emergence of an arrow.

Sherlock is reluctant to come to this conclusion though, because at least three arrows, pointing in three entirely different directions, could be drawn on the points currently present...and without having seen all cases to completion, how can he know whether some other pattern might show itself? How far should he assume the lines will extend?

He knows he is committing capitol error in attempting to theorise without all the facts at his disposal, but he has little other choice. The arrangements of the locations are much too vague though; he would do better to find at least one more and see into which pattern it fits.

'Your information,' Mycroft announces into the silence; he places the laptop on top of the map in front of Sherlock, taking care not to topple the cold, untouched cup of tea from Mrs Hudson sitting beside it.

They have twenty one minutes.

Sherlock reads quickly.

He scans the page, searching for anything he thinks might be relevant; names, dates, addresses, anything. He soon finds what he knows he should have looked for sooner, and it is enough to convince him that he is finally on the right scent.

Hilary James is a false identity; her real name is Abigail Ainsworth, and she has been in witness protection for almost four years.

Dull, boring and predictable are all things he could use to describe the events leading up to Hilary's – or Abigail's - self re-invention; testifying at a murder trial, of all the mundane explanations in the world, but for once tedium is almost a relief; it makes it possible to solve this that much sooner.

'Turner,' says Sherlock, after searching the document for the name of the convicted man, 'he's in prison I assume?'

'He is,' remarks Mycroft calmly, 'though his brother was acquitted of the accessory charge and promptly disappeared.'

Sherlock's eyes flicker continually from side to side as he reads further, and when he reaches the end of the text his gaze doesn't move from the screen for several moments, his lips parted and his brow creased with concentration; not, Mycroft can tell, working his way towards a conclusion, but testing the plausibility of one he has already come to. His expression is glazed, but clears instantaneously after half a minute of pondering, breaking into what is almost a gleefully triumphant smile.

'Are you certain of the truth of your hypothesis?' Asks Mycroft, closing the laptop with a click so that Sherlock is forced to move his long fingers from the keyboard, 'You cannot afford to make mistakes.'

'It makes complete sense,' says Sherlock, moving as if to open the laptop again, but Mycroft's hand is still splayed across it, preventing him access. The case is simple enough, once Abigail Ainsworth – _"A"_, he reminds himself – has had her past revealed; blindingly so. She herself must be innocent of the charges placed against her or there would be no case for him to solve – the clue of "A" must mean that the true perpetrator is in connection with her past life.

Turner's brother, the reports Mycroft has uncovered say, has been in trouble more than once in connection with drugs, both before and after the murder trial, though he has never been put away for any length of time – the evidence has always been insubstantial. He would be perfectly placed, if he could find her, to frame Hilary James, or Abigail Ainsworth, or whoever she is, by planting drugs on her, then tipping someone off so that they are found and she is jailed. Once in prison presumably there are more sinister plans afoot – but who better to advise a criminal on how to find and frame an innocent woman? _Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get revenge..._

'It is conjecture,' Mycroft states.

'It fits,'

'You have no _facts_, Sherlock, no _proof_.'

'I have sixteen minutes to solve this – what proof can you offer in that time?' He demands shortly. Mycroft is silent for a long while, his eyes boring into Sherlock's searchingly, frowning. He is right, of course; the explanation certainly makes sense...but it does seem a trifle too easy.

'Do you not think that he would have made things more difficult than this?'

'He had his fun with the girl,' Sherlock retorts, now forcing the laptop open despite the fact Mycroft has not yet removed his hand, 'she was his main focus. This was just...a sideshow. It's not important to him.'

Again, Mycroft doesn't reply. But after a pause, he gets up and strides from the room, intending to call Detective Inspector Lestrade with the news. Sherlock is typing before he has left.

* * *

Once again, the glare of the uncovered bulb is too much for John's eyes and he throws up a hand to shield them; the longer he is encased in this dark prison, the more sensitive his eyes have become, and it's painful to open them in the bright light but he forces himself to nonetheless, squinting as they water in protest.

He lets out a strangled cry.

Sherlock has entered the room.

The wave of emotions at the sight of his friend is so strong it literally knocks him backwards, and though it takes all of a few seconds to process them, it seems an age as his mind reels with shock – first is an overwhelming relief – _he's saved_ – then in a split second is horror as he sees that Sherlock is flanked by Moriarty's henchmen – horror subsides into confusion in less time than it takes for the uncharacteristic smirk to unfold itself on Sherlock's face, and confusion in turn transforms into a whirling mixture of nausea, relief, disappointment and disgust as Sherlock laughs.

The face is Sherlock's sure enough, but not that laugh, not that expression, that cruel glint in his eyes; he takes a step forwards, basking in the glory of having caused the stricken look now on John's face, and as he does so the image seems to flicker and distort, until the form of Moriarty replaces Sherlock and the hallucination fades away.

'You don't look very pleased to see me, John,' Moriarty says in a familiar, drawling tone of mock disappointment. John doesn't reply, clutching the wall behind him for support and trying unsuccessfully to catch his breath without giving away his moment of panic. 'I only came to share the good news,' he continues, 'thought you might like to know that Sherlock's finally managed to get to the bottom of this latest little problem of mine.' As he speaks, he holds a mobile phone out so John, whose eyes are still stinging, can see Sherlock's website on the screen. Beneath a post from Sherlock – finishing with 'case closed', bold and underlined – which says something about a woman named Abigail being framed, Moriarty has commented.

John turns white, and Moriarty grins.

_Very good Sherlock! _It says. _Now, "R" is for "Recliner" – perhaps you should take a look at it for the next clue._

Sherlock's reply, so fast in it's coming that the time stamp is of the same minute as Moriarty's taunt, says _I don't have a recliner._

Moriarty: _Mrs Hudson does._

**AN: Anonymous review responses...**

'**Me' – Thanks again for your reviews – if you are the real Sherlock, get your butt into gear and work the mystery out so you can save John! If you are the real Moriarty, watch your back! If you aren't either, you'll just have to keep reading to see what happens. Yeah, sorry about the cliff hanger...I would say at least now it's resolved, but given that ending... *hides***

'**hendern' – You have no idea how close I've been to writing that at least twice! It just didn't fit though.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: Strong language. Justified, believe me. **

Leaving his laptop open, Sherlock, ignoring once more the protests of his body, is out of the room and halfway down the stairs before Mycroft has hung up on Lestrade and moved to follow him.

'Mrs Hudson!' He shouts, running towards her door – she comes rushing, blessedly unharmed, from her own rooms and Sherlock spares her a quick, searching glance before pushing past uninvited into them – she doesn't object, but watches him with eyes widened in fear. Mycroft lays a placating hand on the trembling woman's shoulder as his brother rips the cushion from the offending piece of furniture.

Another _damned_ note, folded neatly in the exact centre of the seat beneath the cushion – Sherlock feels a tingling cold at the thought that one of Moriarty's people must have been here to place it. In _his_ flat – in _Mrs Hudson's_ flat...the taunt is so clear, so obviously screaming of Moriarty's cruel laugh, throwing in Sherlock's face the fact that he could do _anything_ he likes and Sherlock would be all but powerless to stop him...that's why he left the note here, he never had any intention of harming Mrs Hudson, not when he already has Sherlock under his – under his _control_ – but the very fact that he _could_...

_This shouldn't be news to you Sherlock; "T" is for "Time". What else is it for?_

_Two hours_.

Surplus words are skimmed from the message and Sherlock processes those of importance so fast it's almost a blur to him – news, time, two hours.

Mycroft is leaning on his umbrella in the doorway. Mrs Hudson is beside him, her gaze flickering anxiously between the two brothers, not daring to speak.

They are both distracting.

Sherlock strides from the room, from the building, and hails the nearest taxi, directing the driver to Bart's automatically without the slightest intention of going there...he just needs to be out, he needs to be away from Mycroft and Mrs Hudson, away from Lestrade and his laptop, just _be_, so he can think, so he can process the clue mechanically and without distraction, without interference even from his own emotions.

The clue must be the news – a particularly well known story, or one so minor and obscure it is offered a few paragraphs several pages in beneath some pointless advert about furniture sales? Either one is as likely for Moriarty – it could be on the internet, in a newspaper, a magazine – the television, the radio...anywhere. It could be huge or miniscule, it could be catastrophic or laughable, it could be recent or decades old...it could be _anything_.

It does not matter that John is no longer being given the drugs – Sherlock's relief at this fact is overwhelmed by the knowledge that it is far, far from meaning that John is safe and just because he isn't being given them anymore doesn't mean their damage has not already been done...

He forces the thoughts from his mind, and wills himself to concentrate. The street outside the window is just beginning to quieten, the light dimming as afternoon fades into early evening...how long has it been since he left the hospital?

It doesn't matter.

Two hours...surely, _surely_, it cannot be that difficult if he is to solve whatever it is in just two hours? Or are those two hours for him to find the case, and will he be given more time to solve it? Will it lead to another significant location – one to complete the pattern?

He wishes he hadn't left the map behind.

_T_...the letter should be some sort of clue – a small, quickly stifled flash of something somewhere between excitement, relief and sheer panic grips Sherlock's chest momentarily. _M, O, R, I, A, R, T_. The next clue will be _Y_ – they have almost run out of letters.

News; "T"; time...news...inching along behind a learner driver, the taxi slowly passes a newsagents, with a paper rack outside displaying the latest headlines, proclaiming financial and sporting disaster in two inch high letters, warning of fraud and crime and the normal, dull worries of normal, dull people...

It's a wonder he sees it. His eyes are out of focus, not looking at the world but looking _through_ it as he loses himself in his thoughts and his desperate attempts to stave off the unhelpful, unwanted prickling of his own inconvenient emotions...

Just off centre of the rack is a large, folded copy of a newspaper which instantly has Sherlock throwing money towards the cab driver as he scrambles to get out – _The Times_.

An elderly man grumbles as Sherlock pushes past him to get to the shop front, a young woman glares at him when he snatches the paper from beneath her outstretched fingers, and several people shout angrily after him as he begins to move away without paying, but he doesn't hear them, and they don't approach him. Perhaps the fire in his eyes has frightened them, perhaps the urgency with which he is walking convinces them not to interfere; perhaps they simply cannot be bothered to get involved.

Spread across the front page of _The Times_, so large it takes up at least half the space, is a black and white photograph of the _Thames_.

"T"; Time; Thames – it _fits_.

And he immediately identifies precisely the location of this particular stretch of water, picking out landmarks and indications that he knows, with an odd, painful pressure in his chest which he can't identify or explain, would have John announcing his deduction _extraordinary_, even though it is perfectly obvious.

The article itself rambles on about some recent building project or restoration or petition or something else Sherlock doesn't care about – it's the location that's important. He can just see the Battersea Park Pagoda on the opposite bank from where the photograph was taken, and orders the startled taxi driver to take him there, climbing back into the same vehicle he vacated not two minutes ago; the cabbie seems nervous of him, glancing constantly in the rear-view mirror to see his passenger, but makes no comment and drives quickly, either realising the importance of haste or else simply keen to have Sherlock out of the car.

The driver takes Sherlock as close as he can, but their way is blocked by the already present police force – a fire engine, an ambulance – yellow tape, blue flashing lights and the occasional _whoop_ of intermittent sirens from the stationary emergency vehicles.

Sherlock ignores the warnings of the officers scattered around and pushes his way towards the centre of the commotion.

Glass litters the road. Smoke curls from beneath the mutilated bonnet of the car, which has crumpled like paper against the tree, bending around it so that a tear has been ripped up to the shattered leftovers of the windscreen.

Fire crews, police and paramedics swarm around busily – Sherlock can tell, with an inexplicable sick feeling in his stomach as he recognises the red hair falling over the steering wheel, hiding the face of the driver from view, that the ambulances are too late to save Sarah Sawyer.

He thinks of John, and his fury with Moriarty increases.

'What are _you_ doing here?' Demands Anderson as Sherlock approaches; Sherlock pushes past, ignoring, too, Donovan's calls and remonstrations. He looks around in vain for Lestrade.

'What does this have to do with you, freak?' Donovan's voice cuts through his thoughts sharply, 'I would have thought your _intellect_ would have been above this.'

'Unless you have something useful to add, Sally, do shut up.' Sherlock snaps without looking at her. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration as he peers into the car. Anger and shock battle for dominance beneath the surface but his outward appearance is as usual cool and detached. Officials and emergency services personal are milling around him, too busy to take much notice of his presence. Their efforts are pointless, Sherlock can see without having to look too closely – but _why_? Why kill Sarah, why mask it as an accident, _why_, what is the _point_?

Unless this _is_ the point, unless the purpose is to have Sherlock wasting time questioning his enemy's motives – attacking Sarah...it would seem to be aimed at hurting John, but is Moriarty not interested solely in Sherlock? Is he just _bored_, and raising the game? Is the reason to toy with Sherlock_ through_ John? Because it takes longer than it probably should for him to identify it, but the awful nauseous feeling he has is surely guilt...empathy is not his strong point, far from it, but he is fairly certain that he knows how John will react to this news...and the inescapable fact that it is _Sherlock's fault_.

Why, _why_ did he not stop and _think_ and _realise_ that this was likely? Why didn't he enlist Mycroft's help to protect her? Why hasn't he already solved this and found John, found Moriarty and done – whatever it is he will do when he does? He hasn't given it much thought..._Harry_.

Harriet Watson. If Moriarty has attacked Sarah, what is there to say that he won't –

Sherlock dials Mycroft's number without thinking, demands without preamble that his brother finds and protects Harry, ends with the assurance that if anything happens to John's sister he, Sherlock, will hold Mycroft personally responsible, and hangs up just as suddenly.

Why did he not think of it before? He could have saved her, he could have saved Sarah if he had just _thought_, if he hadn't been so utterly _stupid_ – this isn't helping. He takes a breath and forces the thoughts away as Anderson's voice once more cuts through them.

'This was an _accident_.' He tells Sherlock impatiently, 'why are you here?'

'It wasn't an accident.'

'How can you possibly – what are you doing? You can't -!'

Sherlock is leaning through the broken window into the back seat, rummaging through the plastic shopping bags in search of he doesn't know what...it doesn't matter that in all normal circumstances he would find himself agreeing with Anderson's conclusion – there are no indications otherwise, but Sherlock is positive that further investigation would reveal cut brakes or something else intentional on Moriarty's part; there is no mystery here, so the car must contain another clue.

Anderson seems on the verge of physically pulling Sherlock back, but refrains from doing so, more from fear of the detective's reaction to such an attempt than respect for the man's opinions. He hovers indecisively behind Sherlock, glaring at him and protesting feebly. Donovan is on her mobile; Sherlock hears Lestrade's name.

Sherlock concentrates his search for paper, or for something beginning with a "Y" with mounting excitement, burying any guilt or concern he might feel – the last clue, it must be, it _has_ to be the last clue, the one that will lead him to John and Moriarty, he's close, he _knows_ he is so, so close...

* * *

'You _BASTARD_!' John shouts hoarsely, lunging forwards with blind rage and disbelief – his arms are gripped tightly by Moriarty's thugs and he struggles wildly against them so that even outnumbered they have trouble holding him – Moriarty takes an involuntary step back but the cruel smile is still hitched on his face, dark eyes glittering with malice. John doesn't care that he's barely eaten in days and days, he doesn't care that his body is far from recovered from the drug abuse, that he's so weak he can't even stand for long periods without his legs failing him, he just doesn't _care_, he's seeing red and his chest is constricting so painfully he wants to scream, this can't be true, it _can't be_, Moriarty must be lying, Sarah – oh God, he can't have...Sarah just – she just _has_ to be okay, she has to be alive, it's his fault if she's dead, he should have left her, he should have told her to go and made her _safe_ from this...

'Now John, you really should think more carefully about your actions.' Moriarty _chuckles_, he actually _chuckles_ at John's fury and grief, at the agony on the man's face, amused by his attempts to attack.

'You – she wasn't part of this! She wasn't – why – you –' he stutters incoherently as he tries to tug himself free from the hold of his captor's henchmen.

'Calm down before you hurt yourself,' Moriarty tells him impatiently, 'wouldn't want _that_ would we?' With a smirk, he turns, and one of the nameless men holding John lets go, but he has no more luck in breaking free. A gun is levelled on his head, but he is so used to this routine now and his mind is so dulled with grief that the usual fear doesn't even register, he simply stills automatically, though unable to control the trembling which shakes him from head to foot, and Moriarty and his men walk calmly from the room without John attempting an escape. He is sorely tempted to disregard the risk and launch himself at the hateful consulting criminal. A large piece of paper is thrown to the floor before the door closes and he hears the familiar sound of bolts being drawn across it. John makes his way, feeling numb, to pick it up.

He hardly cares what it might say, horror saturating his thoughts to the extent no fear or indeed any other emotion can penetrate it anymore. He cannot believe this. He feels the lump rising in his throat distantly, as though he is detached from it, and barely notices the tears making their tracks down his face.

_Sarah_.

Poor, kind, sweet Sarah, too patient and understanding for her own good – Sarah, her laugh, her smile, her beautiful hair falling around her face as her eyes twinkle in amusement at some stupid joke of his, her courage, her _Goddamn_ ridiculous courage that had her staying with him even after being kidnapped...this is his fault, it is all his fault, and his heart aches so much with the pain of it, his lungs feel like the air is being squeezed out of them, his brain is cloudy with anger and the unreality of it all when he stoops to pick up the paper, only distantly concerned as to what might be on it.

It is a photograph – crystal quality, and it shows the car. It shows _her_.

With a scream of rage he crushes it in his hand and throws it to the ground, running at the door and pounding it with his fists - the pain which rockets up his arm from the broken one is only what he deserves, so he doesn't stop and doesn't pay attention to it, shouting himself hoarse, yelling until his voice fails him and subsides into wracking sobs and inarticulate words, he slides down to the floor with a horrible pang of familiarity at the action and the accompanying surge of hopelessness, when his energy is sapped; he grips his hair, trying to banish the image of the crumpled metal, the shattered glass and the blood from his mind and praying, hoping and praying for all that he is worth, that Sherlock will not kill Moriarty if – _when _– he finds him. John wants that privilege himself.

* * *

Sherlock pulls bread and crushed eggs from the shopping bags, tosses them aside, pushes the milk out of the way, finds his fingers closing on a bottle of some kind of health yogurt – _hold on_.

Simple – so stupidly simple; he didn't notice at first because he so very rarely ventures to the shops himself but aren't these – he checks the label – these Yakult – normally sold in multipacks? He's sure John might have bought some a while ago...yes, he distinctly remembers the doctor's indignation when he removed them from the fridge to make way for an experiment.

So why is there only a single bottle here, if it has come straight from the shop?

And why does it feel too light to have anything inside? No – wait – it _rattles_.

Still paying no attention to Anderson's feeble protestations, he uncaps the bottle and upturns it, so that a small, gold ring tumbles into the palm of his hand.

**AN: *Hides* Okay, please don't hate me too much! And sorry about the awful clue, "Y" is a nightmare of a letter...next chapter: **_**final**_** chapter.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Yeah, I still don't own it.**

**AN: I took a little creative licence with the workings of pawn shops, I really know nothing about them so I would be grateful if you could overlook any inconsistencies...and apologies in advance. I can't believe this is the last chapter! I hope you enjoy it.**

With practised skill Sherlock quickly examines the ring, dropping the plastic bottle to the ground. He turns the little golden band over in his long fingers, inspecting its surface closely, peering at it through his magnifying lens and squinting so minutely at it that he might for all his concentration be trying to dissect it down to atoms by sheer willpower alone.

It is old – very old, several decades at least, and equally dirty on both sides, so it is unlikely to be worn on a regular basis. This coupled with the age seem to indicate a family heirloom – there are minute scratches on the inside which suggest it has been hung on a necklace for some time. Important heirloom then, emotional attachments to the deceased family member...miniscule numbers have been etched onto the inner surface, some sort of identification marking? Or perhaps a message to him? But no, the marks are not fresh, the metal exposed by them is not shining or clean...

Old fashioned pawn shops spring to mind. Identifying markings, more reliable than a receipt or label, less modern than a computer but still used...

Lestrade or Mycroft? Sherlock suffers a moment of indecision, but is saved the trouble of making it himself when the Detective Inspector strides up to him, looking irate.

'You're not going to tell me that this Moriarty had something to do with this, too?' He asks immediately; Sherlock holds up the ring by way of reply.

'I need to find the pawn shop this was sold to.'

'I'll take that as a yes,' says Lestrade with a sigh. He runs his hand through his hair, tired, frustrated and impatient with this whole case, this whole _Moriarty_ business – by God it would do wonders for his career if he caught the man but currently he can't muster up the ambition to find this especially attractive. He just wants the man _gone_, he wants this _over_, and he doesn't care who solves the case or who makes the arrest; London cannot stand much more of this. It needs to be finished. He fishes his mobile out of his pocket. 'Read out the number,' he tells Sherlock.

* * *

Some fifteen minutes later, Sherlock and Lestrade are once more in the car together, this time heading towards a run-down pawn shop near Aldersgate. Sherlock fidgets for the entire journey, all traces of weariness vanished now that he knows how close they must be, he is itching for the chase. They are _so close_.

The shop is not an impressive sight, set back slightly from the road and hardly welcoming, dimly lit and just closing when they arrive. The teenaged shop assistant, a slouching boy with one earphone in, ripped jeans and a small camera hanging around his neck, blanches at the sight of Lestrade's badge, looking quite unnerved, and hurries to find the manager.

'How may I help you Sirs?' The man asks as soon as he sees them, smiling jovially but seeming nervous at the sight of them. He has thinning, brilliantly red hair and small, searching eyes, which he passes over Sherlock and Lestrade quickly.

'Mr Jabez Wilson?' Says Lestrade, more of a statement than a question; the manager nods.

'This ring,' Sherlock holds it out. Lestrade contents himself with only a small tightening of the jaw to show his disapproval, knowing that whether or not he appreciates Sherlock's methods, his help is invaluable to solving this case. 'We need to know who it belonged to.'

'Certainly – nothing wrong, I hope?' He gives a nervous almost-laugh as he looks up the name; Sherlock's eyes remain fixed on him and neither he nor Lestrade reply, but their grim expressions are all the confirmation the man needs. Biting his lip, he searches as fast as he can. 'Ah, here we are!' He exclaims self-importantly after a moment, scribbling down the relevant information onto a piece of paper, which he hands to Sherlock. Lestrade tries not to feel too undercut by the action.

'Miss Jasmine Broadhurst, a somewhat regular client,' says Wilson,

'Did you sell this ring? Or did she come back for it?' Sherlock asks.

'She came back for it – well, only yesterday,' Wilson replies, 'do you mind if I ask what this is about?'

'Was she alone? _Did she come in alone_?'

'N – no,' the shopkeeper stutters, quite alarmed by Sherlock's outburst, 'she – she came in with a –'

'A young man,' Sherlock finishes; he stops himself short of describing Moriarty, knowing that if it was him, he would most likely have been in a disguise.

He thinks of meeting _Jim_ at the hospital, and has to work hard to bury the frustration he feels with himself at the memory...if only he had _thought_, if he had seen, if he had _known_, this wouldn't be happening – to Hell with boredom, _John_ –

'Yes, he was; friend of hers, she said, lent her some money so she could have it back...her Grandmother's I believe –'

'Was she comfortable with him? This friend, did it seem like they'd known each other long?'

'Well, I don't see how that's much of your business Sir,' Wilson puffs out his chest in what he evidently hopes is an intimidating manner; Lestrade steps forwards, showing his badge once more,

'This is a murder investigation Mr Wilson, I'm sure you can appreciate that.'

Wilson turns white and stumbles, mopping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead.

'M – murder? And you think it has something to do with my _shop_? I run a perfectly legal establishment, you can check –'

'I don't care,' Sherlock interrupts, 'just tell me about the man, quickly.'

'Well – well, he was...charming. Couldn't stop smiling, said it was a special present...I suppose now you mention it she seemed a little awkward, but I thought maybe it was just embarrassment, you know, at having to be bailed out like that. He didn't seem sinister at all, if that's what you mean.'

'No, I'm sure he didn't,' says Sherlock dryly as he turns to leave, the paper clutched in his hand.

'We'll be in touch,' Lestrade assures the still flustered manager, before hurrying after Sherlock. 'So what does this mean? You think that was Moriarty, you think he actually went to the shop with her? Why would he do that - ?'

'To get my attention,' Sherlock replies,

'But – I mean, what does he have to gain from getting this woman her jewellery back?'

'Consulting criminal, he doesn't get his hands dirty, he has people to do his work for him –'

'All the more reason not to show himself in connection with the crime –'

'- but he must have a way of getting people to work for him,' Sherlock continues as if Lestrade had not interrupted, 'half of them probably already criminals, in need of a little organisation, he brings order to the chaos, but he needs more, and where does he get them from? Money has to be the number one reason for committing crime – apart from jealousy, obviously, and he's got money, he's got plenty, so he preys on the desperate – this woman, she gets herself into financial difficulty, can't see a way out, someone talks to someone who gets her in contact with him, and she ends up acting under his influence in exchange for the funds.'

'Right,' Lestrade agrees slowly, 'so what's her relevance to this case?'

'No idea. I'll get back to you,' he lies. Lestrade calls after him and tries to follow as he darts across the road, but by the time the cars have cleared enough for him to see, Sherlock has vanished, and he can't be wasting his time trying to chase down the amateur detective...he turns and heads back towards the shop, intending to pick up a second copy of the information.

Two streets away by the time Lestrade exits the shop for a second time, Sherlock slows his pace and looks at the paper – name, address, contact details...the address is the only part which interests Sherlock. He pictures the map, adding and deleting lines in his head until the pattern emerges; he places this woman's house on the map too – and it's clear.

The locations do, indeed, form a crude arrow if lines are drawn between them – and with mounting excitement, Sherlock realises that the arrow is pointing directly towards Battersea Park.

Jasmine Broadhurst lives on Battersea Park Road, above an empty shop.

This is where Sherlock instructs the taxi driver to take him.

* * *

There is a frankly dangerous look on Mycroft Holmes's face when Lestrade tells him what happened, made worse by the fact that Lestrade knows that in the time it took him to double back, retrieve a second set of information, come to conclusion that this address _has_ to be where Sherlock stormed off to, find Mycroft and tell him – Sherlock could very well already have reached the house.

Mycroft does not reply to the news though; he stares at Lestrade for what are some of the most frightening seconds of the Detective Inspector's life, then turns swiftly away and raises his phone to his ear.

Lestrade stands still, struck dumb as waves of desperation sweep over him, then swiftly gathers himself and begins punching numbers into his own phone, barking orders down the line to get together backup _now_ – infuriating they both may be, but he'll be damned if he won't have some part in helping Sherlock and John. It's his duty.

* * *

Sherlock drums his fingers on the door, shifts in his seat, incessantly checks his phone, turning it over and over in his hands – he considers texting Mycroft, disregards the thought – he knows Moriarty will want to face him alone. _He_ wants to face the man alone. He snaps at the driver more than once, demands higher speeds, fewer traffic-light stops and less banal and distracting thought from him – the man takes offence and begins to lecture Sherlock on workplace harassment or some such nonsense, but the ferocity of Sherlock's rebuttal is enough to silence him for the rest of the tense, achingly _long_ journey.

This is it. This _has_ to be it – all the other cases have literally pointed in this direction and they have no more letters – he has been given so little time on this particular puzzle that it cannot, it _cannot_ be anything more than the address he was supposed to uncover – this is where he will find John, where he will find Moriarty and put a bullet through his head, where he will correct his stupid, _stupid_ blindness at the hospital and he _will end this_.

Excitement – fear – anger – they swell up so strongly that to attempt to hide them now is a pointless waste of time and brain power, choking him, making him feel sick and short of breath, stopping him thinking straight – he has no plan, he has never really had a plan, the plan is to find Moriarty and to get John away from wherever he is...the plan is to use the gun Lestrade does not even know he has taken yet and put a stop to the game, now – the rest is just details.

This is his fault, all his fault, but it won't last much longer and then everything will be – the way it was. He will not use the dreaded _normal_ word, but he will be back solving crimes, shooting holes in the wall and complaining of boredom; John will be back rolling his eyes, wearing his ridiculous jumpers and just _being there_. Mycroft will be following him – not personally of course – Anderson will be irritable and useless, Lestrade will be tolerable, Mrs Hudson will be fussing and Moriarty will be _gone_. This game is _finished_.

It takes far, far too long to get there, but when they arrive they are at least within the two hour limit. Sherlock has no idea whether or not he pays the cabbie enough, but the man doesn't complain as he drives away, as fast as the speed limit will allow.

It is an anticlimactic moment, seeing Jasmine Broadhurst's home. Plain rectangle, boarded up windows face out onto the street above a derelict shop, which doesn't look as though anyone has entered or left in...weeks, months, at the least. Sherlock knows better; either Moriarty is being extremely careful, or there is another entrance.

Finding another way in does not interest Sherlock, it would take much too long – the street is quiet, lamps just beginning to turn on; some shops are closed, others are open, but few people remain to see him.

The door is unlocked. Nobody stops him as he pushes it open, painfully slowly in case there is a trap.

Nothing.

A cold, empty room with – yes, Sherlock can see it now – a door at the back which must lead outside. Another door, hidden in a recess in the wall, is plain and covered with cracked, white paint, mirroring the depressed atmosphere of the building...the woman clearly had not had much choice when searching for a place to live. Surely Moriarty could have found a better location? But hiding in plain sight is very much the man's specialty...maybe that is the attraction.

Sherlock steps carefully across the room towards the plain white door and tests the handle, knowing that doing so is stupidity of the highest level – Moriarty has a liking for bombs, after all, and this must be his _something special_ or the effort is not worth it...nevertheless, Sherlock ploughs on. Finding John – stopping Moriarty – both are more important right now than worrying unduly about possible threats...

The door opens without an explosion, and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. There is a staircase beyond, which he climbs steadily, hating the slowness with which he must move...he wonders vaguely if Lestrade or Mycroft are coming, not particularly caring if they are.

_John's here, John's here, John's here_...the mantra repeats itself in his head in time with his footsteps, thudding just as emptily in the dark silence. He feels the cold metal of the gun in his hand, smells dust and damp, hears his own heart pounding in his ears.

The first prickling of doubt surfaces as he climbs, a hot, uncomfortable feeling...what if he is wrong? He's wasting _time_, what if this isn't where John is? He won't have a chance to correct his mistake if John isn't here – there isn't enough of the countdown left.

With this thought, he jumps the last few steps, noticing only peripherally the sharp pain of his still healing wounds, and barely manages to stop, just short of the trip wire stretched almost imperceptibly across the top of the staircase.

A bomb, no doubt.

Holding his breath, Sherlock steps over it, making sure to keep his feet high in the air.

Did Moriarty really expect him to fall for that? The flood of relief is enormous, entirely eclipsing any fear he might have for the explosives – their presence means he is in the right place, after all.

But the building remains eerily quiet as he treads across the thin carpet to another set of stairs – he freezes halfway up.

Voices.

He can hear _voices_. _Familiar_ ones.

He runs up the last few stairs, leaping over the second and third trip wires – he can hear them getting closer, his breathing is shallow, his heartbeat is deafening - this is it, this has to be – there's a door at the end of the corridor, thick, laden with heavy bolts, all of which are unlocked and he knows, he knows it is a trap, but he can hear that voice and he cannot keep away, he can hear John –

He throws open the door with the gun raised and ready – he sees Moriarty, he hears John shout a warning and he feels a sickening pain, reels sideways – his finger squeezes the trigger automatically but the bullet goes astray, burying itself in the opposing wall – the man who hit him receives a sharp blow from the butt of the gun as Sherlock whirls around, he hears John shouting and Moriarty clapping, he swings his foot out and catches one of his attackers in the chest – the door has been slammed shut behind him, they are trapped – another man, Sherlock has lost count of how many there are, brings a ham-like fist down on his arm with incredible strength – the gun falls from his grip and skitters across the floor, he feels another fist lurch forwards and tastes blood – he has just long enough to register his own stupidity at acting so rashly before both arms are caught in a vice like grip and he is forced to come to a halt.

Moriarty is grinning. This is all Sherlock cares to notice about the man before his gaze is drawn to John.

John is slumped to the floor against the wall, sporting a vivid bruise above his eye and several cuts across his face, some fresh and some left over from the explosion at the pool. He still has a cast on his wrist, but it is filthy. He has dried blood on his face. He is breathing heavily, looking pale, exhausted and desperate; as he stares at Sherlock, hope seems to fade from his eyes, that righteous anger that was present only moments ago has transformed into fear and resignation, now Sherlock is trapped as well. He is trembling.

Sherlock's chest hurts at the sight, but he doesn't know why. His face is set like stone. His breathing is carefully regulated to be even and he stands still and tall – the only give-aways are his eyes, which are burning with fury.

He glances upwards and sees thin, high windows – no real light filters through them, except the shimmering red dots which are once again trained on him and John.

He will not panic. He will _not_ let Moriarty win. He casts around for a plan, remaining stock still. John is watching him.

Is it wishful thinking, or does he hear the faintest, distant sounds of police sirens?

'Well well, Sherlock, this has worked out better than I could have hoped!' Moriarty says, 'this is really _priceless_.'

Sherlock does not reply.

'Nothing to say, my dear? You haven't even worked out my final plan yet.'

Sherlock's eyes flicker towards John, but it is too painful to remain looking at him for long. He glances towards the high windows but cannot see far enough beyond to make out more than indistinct shapes.

'To kill me, no doubt,' Sherlock says, sounding rather bored. Moriarty smiles.

'But _how_, Sherlock? Haven't you figured it out?'

'I'm assuming those trip wires were a somewhat unimaginative way –'

'Oh _no_, Sherlock, this is too precious,' he claps his hands and beams, before his face falls into an ugly grimace. 'No, no...those were just a distraction; you know, you really _should_ have looked for another entrance.' Sherlock, for a split second, tries to pull his arms from the men holding him – they let go, but one of the red lights drifts almost lazily from John's chest to his forehead, and Sherlock freezes with three of them still circling his own heart.

'What – what are you talking about?' John forces himself to speak, struggling to stay conscious under the combined influences of injuries, drugs, grief, anger and sheer desperation. It is even worse now that Sherlock is here, and he cannot see a way out for either of them.

'I'm disappointed, really I am,' Moriarty tuts, shaking his head; Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye, focusing on John. 'The _door_, Sherlock, that was the trigger,'

'For what?' Sherlock asks coldly, brain working at top speed – he is certain he can hear sirens...

'You see that light up there?' Sherlock nods. John's eyes snap towards the blinking light in the corner and back again, 'That's where the gas is going to get released from. In...approximately half an hour.'

Horror. Pure, cold, absolute horror floods Sherlock's brain so that for a moment he cannot think – how could he have missed this? How could he have been so _stupid_ as to not notice, as to presume that Moriarty's only plan relied on a few plainly obvious and laughably inadequate trip wires?

John's eyes have widened but otherwise his expression has not changed. He has already been through too much to allow this to shake him further – Sherlock knows that his own facade has slipped, and far too much emotion is being allowed to play on his face.

'I do so wish I could stay,' Moriarty continues, with a reptilian smirk, 'it would be _so_ entertaining to see.' He draws out the _so _agonisingly.

'You won't get out of here,' says Sherlock – John is the one looking around now – his eyes rake over the gun, laid unattended on the floor...too far away, much too far away...but...he thinks, if he really strains his ears, he _thinks_ he can hear cars pulling to screeching halts in a street that seems a thousand miles away.

'You can't stop me,' Moriarty says, 'you're well and truly _trapped_, Sherlock Holmes.'

'Then I've nothing to lose, have I?'

'I wouldn't say that. After all – there's still the question of who dies first...would you like to watch your little pet die, Sherlock?'

Sherlock doesn't make a move towards Moriarty, but he desperately wants to. His eyes are wide as he looks towards John, and the sight frightens John more than anything so far – because Sherlock is shaking. Visibly shaking. John's eyes find the gun once more. Moriarty is in front of him, to the left slightly...too close to the gun, he'd get there first...

One of the lights trained on Sherlock blinks out in time with the sound of a faint _thud_ – then another, and another – John doesn't think as he lunges forwards, the sound of bullets rips the air, two of Moriarty's men fall – Sherlock takes out another with a blow to the chin and John's fingers close around the gun wrested from Sherlock when he entered the room – he barely takes the time to aim before he pulls the trigger – once – twice – and more yelling echoes around the room, shouts of pain and rage – Moriarty collapses to the floor, screaming, his face contorted with fury and agony. Both knees are pouring blood.

Then it is over. The sniper lights are gone, Sherlock is standing coolly before Moriarty, who is hissing and swearing, close to passing out, Sherlock's mask almost completely back as he mutters _Mycroft_ under his breath.

John doesn't have the energy left to process how fast it happened or the danger they are still in. He is barely standing, his legs threatening to give way at any moment, eyes blazing with fury, the gun still in his hand and still pointed at Moriarty.

Sherlock looks at John.

'Why the knees?' He asks calmly, and there is a detached and fatal danger to his voice as he regards the fallen criminal with disdain. John smiles humourlessly and coldly, inexplicably overjoyed to hear Sherlock's old tones despite the storm which is raging in his grey eyes.

'This way he has to live with what he's done,' John replies – he hadn't thought about it, not really, but it makes sense, and he doesn't regret allowing Moriarty to live. Sherlock looks nearly sympathetic, closer to incredulous.

'You really think that he's likely to feel anything close to remorse for –?'

'Not that,' John assures Sherlock in a voice which leaves no room for argument, though he is weak with emotions he hasn't the concentration to name. Relief barely registers, this whole thing is so unreal and in the agony of the last few days there seems no room for it. 'I meant; he's going to have to live knowing that he _lost_.'

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth – he actually looks like he might be about to say something complimentary, but John's world is tilting dizzyingly to the side as exhaustion sweeps over him – the ceiling comes slowly into view even as he hears a stampede of men enter the room – police, perhaps, or Mycroft's, from Sherlock's comment – he feels himself landing on something much softer than he expects, and listens to the voice from a long way off as blackness covers his vision.

* * *

'I meant; he's going to have to live knowing that he _lost_.'

Sherlock has to admit that John's logic is sound...how he would love to shoot Moriarty, right now, right in the head...but for Jim Moriarty, there can be no worse punishment, no worse torture, than living with the knowledge that he has _failed_. Sherlock knows. Oh, yes, he knows. And it is _perfect_.

John's face has – if possible – paled further – and Sherlock rushes forwards, wrapping his arms around the doctor before he falls and lowering him slowly as he passes out.

'John – John...' he mutters, knowing that his calls will go unanswered. For the first time in his memory, the sheer pressure and overwhelming emotions that he has long since lost a proper hold on, threaten to spill over and his throat is strangely tight, his eyes feel oddly prickly, but they stay perfectly dry. Then, even though he knows it is pointless, it is _ridiculous_, it is clichéd and it will do no one any amount good, mostly because no one hears him say it, he whispers, 'it's over.'

* * *

Mycroft's people were the first to arrive. They scouted the building carefully before they entered. They were swift, silent and precise as they took out the snipers who had had their rifles pointed at John and Sherlock. By the time they had descended to the room below, John had shot Moriarty in the back of both knees and was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness - the police by now put in an appearance and any of Moriarty's henchmen in a fit state were arrested, the others carted to hospital.

Sherlock was, now, sat on the floor with John in his arms, somewhere between elated and disbelieving. He had objected, loudly, to the paramedics' attempts to treat him and insisted they focus on John – _he_ was the injured one after all. He had travelled with him in the ambulance, under the condition that he, too, was checked over on the way.

John has not woken up since then, and Sherlock has not left his side, except when forced to by the doctors as they tend to him.

Sherlock knows for a fact that Mycroft took Moriarty to an entirely separate hospital. He doesn't think about what is going to happen – for now it is enough that he has _won_, he arrived in time, John is alive...

Alive to hate him.

He should, he really should, Sherlock is to blame for all of this – guilt does not help and Sherlock _knows_ it will never help, but he cannot bury it as effectively as he once could.

Sarah Sawyer is dead because of him. John will hate him for that.

John is laid in a hospital bed with tubes and wires running from his body, attaching him to humming, bleeping, winking machines. John will hate him for that.

Sherlock has still not eaten, or slept. John will hate him for that.

But he feels like he is breathing for the first time, like only now is he surfacing from the water at the swimming pool – Moriarty is gone, and John is _here_, he's breathing and his heart is beating, the machines are telling him that, his eyes are telling him that – his finger on John's pulse is telling him that.

Yet he cannot keep his eyes off the doctor's unconscious form, as if to look away will mean that John will disappear once more...he hardly even cares about the small, knowing smile from Lestrade when he visited, or the veiled comments from Mycroft. He just doesn't _care_ at the moment. He is breathing deeply, as though he only has a limited time to do so – as though he is breathing for both of them.

He thinks of the gas, he thinks of John, injured, trembling, terrified – he thinks of being trapped in that room, waiting for their deaths – he jerks his head up as it threatens to droop with sleep. He must keep his eyes open. He must keep them fixed on John, or, irrational as the thought is, none of this will be real and John will be gone again.

It can't be over, this can't be it...there must be more. He feels like something is unfinished...

And he is so _tired_.

* * *

First, John realises that he is warm. This is new.

Then he finds that the surface on which he is laying is soft, and clean. He is neither hungry nor thirsty, nor is the room damp or dark or deafeningly silent.

It smells of antiseptic, coffee and nicotine.

The sound of beeping brings him gently back to the waking world and he blinks slowly, squinting against the light.

He is in hospital...in _hospital_.

Not with Moriarty.

It wasn't a hallucination.

He is _safe_.

With a massive sigh of disbelief, of relief, of fatigue, grief, resignation, joy, of _everything_, he turns his head to the side and sees a tangle of dark hair on the white sheets. He manages a weak smile.

Sherlock is half in the plastic chair beside him, half leaning forwards so that his arms, shoulders and head are on the bed, chest rising and falling slowly. One arm is tucked beneath his torso - that will hurt later – one is flung across John's own chest to where the doctor's wrist is laid, holding it loosely as though trying to reassure himself that John's heart is still beating.

Sleeping.

Safe.

**AN: Terrible ending. Sorry. But yes – that's the end! **

**This has been an incredibly challenging, difficult and **_**enjoyable **_**story to write. I'm quite sorry it's over, actually.**

**Once again, a **_**MASSIVE**_** thank you to every single person who has reviewed, alerted, favourited, or even just plain read this story, you are all amazing and I really hope I didn't disappoint. That was an **_**exhausting**_** chapter to write, I feel like I've just run a marathon! I almost cut it to two chapters, but decided to leave it as an extra long one as a reward to all of you wonderful, brilliant people. **

**One more time, reviews are love. **

**PS: Please vote in my poll, see profile for details (directly relates to this story)...**


	12. Author's Note: Epilogue Up

**Hi there – just a note to say that the epilogue to this story, "A is for Aftermath" is now up.**

**See my profile, I hope you like it.**


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